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WRITINGS ^'"^ 



OF 



REV. AYILLIAM BRADFORD HOMER 



LATE PASTOR OF THE 



CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH IN SOUTH BERWICK, ME. 



WITH A MEMOIR 



BY 



EDWARDS A. PARK, 

BARTLET PROFESSOR IN ANDOVER THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY. 



ANDOVER: 

PUBLISHED BY ALLEN, MORRILL & WARDWELL. 

NEW YORK : DAYTON & NEWMAN. 

1842. 



^•^''S 

'x-%^^ 



^-.-^ 



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'^7' 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1842, by 



in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 




PREFACE 



Soon after the subject of the following Memou* had been 
called from life, his friends expressed a unanimous desire 
that some of the fruits of his scholarship should be given to 
the pubhc. The parish over which he had been ordained, and 
the Association of ministers with which he had been connect- 
ed, testified their regard to his memory by formally requesting 
bis sermons for the press. Candidates for the sacred office 
and clergymen who had but recently commenced their labors 
were especially earnest for the publication of his essays and 
discourses. It was often said that the writings of a young man 
are peculiarly attractive to scholars of his own age, that his ex- 
cellence, whatever it be, engages more of their sympathetic in- 
terest and is therefore more readily imitated, than the excel- 
lence of a writer who is further removed from them in age and 
cultivation. There is sometimes an approach to perfectness in 
a model which discourages all attempts to equal it, and men 
are often less benefited by such a copy than by one which is 
less highly finished. Man has a tendency to imitation which 
cannot be entirely repressed. Whenever he may properly in- 
dulge it, he should look not merely for standards which are free 
from fault, but also for such as are imitable, and such as afford 
incentives to original exertion. It is not claimed that the wri- 
tings of Mr. Homer furnish a model for the imitation of all, but 
it is thought that they exhibit some good qualities which are 
seldom found in the pulpit, and that thoy may stimulate the 



IV PREFACE. 

youthful preacher to attain those varied excellences which are 
called for by the various vrauts of the community. They shovv^ 
that in the esteem of a christian scholar there is no human 
composition so important or so dignified as a sermon, if it be 
a true sermon and not in the words of Bishop Andrews " called 
so by a charitable construction ;" that the pulpit is not only the 
" preacher's throne" but is raised far above any other station on 
earth, and that all attainments in ancient or modern literature 
may be properly subordinated to the work of " persuading men 
in Christ's stead to become reconciled to God." They show the 
influence of a minister's private character upon his public per- 
formances, that an orator must be a good man, and that virtue 
is profitable unto all things in this life. 

It was with great reluctance that the editor of the present vol- 
ume undertook to prepare it for the press. He well knew that 
Mr. Homer did not write for the public eye, that he dreaded the 
criticisms of the multitude and would have shrunk back from 
the remotest suggestion of printing his posthumous remains. 
" When I am gone," he once remarked, " I wish that nothing 
more than my name and my age may be told to those who sur- 
vive me." Many of his compositions were written in haste, and 
but few of them had received the finish that he might have given. 
The editor was also aware that the volume ought to be issued 
sooner than he could hope for sufficient health even to commence 
the preparing of it, and he therefore endeavored to devolve the 
labor upon other hands, but in vain. Denied almost entirely 
the use of his eyes, he has been obliged to omit some correct- 
ing processes which he would gladly have performed ; and 
fearing to mar the individuality of Mr. Homer's writings, he 
has left unmodified some of the statements that seem to him 
not entirely accurate. No alterations have been made but such 
as leave unimpaired the identity of Mr. Homer's character and 
style, and such as when once suggested to him would probably 
have received his sanction. In delineating the character of 
Mr. Homer the editor has been much assisted by several fri^nda 



PREFACE. V 

of the deceased, and is happy to express his gratitude for their 
vahiable communications. He is also largely indebted to a few 
indinduals who have revised much of tJie copy for the press, 
and have corrected all the proof sheets. That the volume is 
not free from imperfections the editor is fully aware. It does 
not contain several of Mr. Homer's discourses and critiques 
which his friends have desired to see in press, nor his highly 
commended oration on the Harmony of the Professions, which 
he delivered at Amherst College when he took his degree of 
Master of Arts. In preparing the Memoir, also, the editor has 
fallen below the standard which he had set up, and has failed 
in delineating the character which he imderstood for himself 
better than he could describe for others. He dismisses the 
work, not with the •'li-igid tranquillity*' which Dr. Johnson 
speaks of, but with the reflection that under many disadvantages 
he has done what he could for the memory of one who deserves 
a better memorial. 

Theol. Sem. Andorer, ) 
May 2, li-^Z. ] 



TABLE OF CONTENTS, 



MEMOm. 

PAGE 

Mr. Homer's Childhood . .14 

Early Youth and Residence at Amherst College. ... 20 

Activity in a Revival of Religion 27 

Habits of Self-contemplation . 33 

Residence at the Theological Seminary 41 

Health and Physical Regimen 51 

Results of Scholarship. 55 

Character as a Friend. 56 

Developments in Affliction 61 

Religious Character. 70 

Facetiousness. 78 

Residence at South Berwick, Maine. 85 

Character as a Preacher. . 93 

Last Days • 118 

Appendix to the Memoir 132 

LITERARY ADDRESSES. 

The Posthumous Power of the Pulpit 139 

The Dramatic Element in Pulpit Oratory 146 



DISCOURSES. 
I. 

INFLUENCE OF FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH 
UPON THE SINNER. 

Matthew 13: 57, — A Prophet is not without honor save in his 
own country and in his own house. ..... 159 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

11. 

THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN SUPERIOR TO THE ANGELS. 

1 Corinthians 6: 3, — Know ye not that we shall judge angels ? 175 

HI. 

THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN SUPERIOR TO THE ANGELS. 

1 Corinthians 6: 3, — Know ye not that we shall judge angels ? 189 

IV. 

THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF THE SINNER WHO 
IS NEARLY A CHRISTIAN. 

Mark 12: 34, — Thou art not far from the kingdom of God. . 202 

V. 

FITNESS OF THE MEDIATOR TO BE THE JUDGE OF THE 

WORLD. 

John 5: 27, — And hath given him authority to execute judgment 
also, because he is the Son of Man 217 

VI. 



Matthew 11: 29, — Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me : 
for I am meek and lowly in heart : and ye shall find rest unto 
your souls . 234 

vii. 

THE RESPONSIBILITY OF A MAN FOR HIS INFLUENCE 
OVER OTHERS. 

Genesis 4: 9, 10, — And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel 
thy brother ? And he said, I know not : am I my brother's 
keeper ? And he said. What hast thou done ? The voice of 
thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground. . . 245 

VIII. 

CHARACTER OF PONTIUS PILATE. 

Luke 23: 24, — And Pilate gave sentence that it should be as they 
required. 256 



CONTENTS. ft 

IX. 

THE NEGLECT OF DUTY AX OCCASIO>^ OF POSITIVE SIN. 

Genesis 4: 7, — If thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. 277 

X. 

THE CULTIVATION OF THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NO PROOF 
OF HOLINESS. 

Matthew 8: 21, 22, — And another of his disciples said unto him. 
Lord, suffer me first to go and bury my father. But Jesus said 
unto him. Follow me ; and let the dead bury their dead. . 289 

XI. 

THE CONNECTION BETWEEN CHRISTIANITY AND THE 
SOCIAL AFFECTIONS. 

John 19: 26, 27, — When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the 
disciple standing by whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, 
Woman, behold thy son ! Then saith he to the disciple. Behold 
thy mother ! And from that hour that disciple took her into 
his own house. ......... 302 

XII. 

THE EXTENT AND BROADNESS OF THE DIVINE LAW. 

Psalm 119: 96, — I have seen an end of all perfection : but thy 
commandment is exceeding broad. ..... 316 

xm. 

THE CHARACTER AND THE REWARD OF ENOCH. 

Genesis 5: 24, — And Enoch walked with God; and he was not, 
for God took him. ........ 331 

XIV. 

THE DUTY OF IMMEDIATE OBEDIENCE TO THE DIVINE 
COMMANDS. 

Psalm 119: 60, — I made haste, and delayed not to keep thy com- 
mandments. .......... 345 



CONTENTS. 



ABSTRACTS AND NOTES ON THE CLASSICS. 

I. 

Abstract of R. P. Knight's Preliminary Observations upon the 
Poems of Homer 363 

H. 

Analysis of Hug's Argument respecting the knowledge and use 
of Alphabetical Characters in the time of Homer, and respect- 
ing the Unity of the Iliad 373 

III. 

Abstract of Thiersch's Treatise on the Age and Native Country 
of Homer . 379 

IV. 

Abstract of Becker's Observations on Demosthenes as a Statesman 
and an Orator. 384 

V. 

Analysis of the Oration of Demosthenes on the Crown, with 
Notes 405 

VI. 

Flans of Lectures on the Iliad and the Odyssey of Homer, and on 
the Oratory of Demosthenes, with Books of Reference. . 418 



MEMOIR 



MEMOIR 



There are two classes of youthful productions which will 
always attract greater interest than is authorized by their in- 
trinsic value. One class comprise the effusions of children 
whose physical system becomes a prey to their mental preco- 
city, and w^hose premature death imparts a pleasing sadness 
to their expressions ^' too old for childhood." The other class 
comprise the juvenile efforts of those whose matured life has 
been full of honors, and the excellence of whose manhood has 
lent a charm to the essays of their minority. When Benjamin 
Franklin was in his fourteenth year, he composed two ballads, 
printed them with his own hands, and went around the streets 
of Boston, selling them for his brother James to whom he had 
been apprenticed. One of them was in relation to a ship- 
wreck, the other to a piracy ; both of them were, in his own 
words, ^' wretched stuff, written in the common street-ballad 
style ;" yet if some carrier of a penny newspaper in Boston, 
could now find those doggerel rhymes, he would make his 
fortune by hawking them around the same streets where their 
author sold them for a pittance, and even that for the benefit 
of his elder brother. We are interested in inverting the spy- 
glass, and making the objects appear small and remote, which 
we know to be large and near. As we love to imagine the 
future greatness of a mind that promises more, perhaps, than 
it will ever perform, so we love to examine the incipient ef- 
forts of a mind that has performed more than it originally 
promised. On the one hand, the writings of Mr. Homer will 

2 



14 MEMOIR. 

not attract the interest of such as love nothing but the mar- 
velous, and are pleased only when they are amazed, for they 
exhibit no unhealthful precocity, and he lived too long to 
present the most striking and dazzling contrast between his 
years and his powers. On the other hand, his productions 
may receive but little regard from those who can discover no 
merit where the indications of youth have not been equaled 
by the attainments of manhood, and where the seal of a great 
name has not been stamped upon essays which betoken more 
of value than thev contain. But although he did not live 

a 

long enough to invest his early efforts with the interest which 
they might have borrowed from the high scholarship which 
be promised, he was not called away until he had exhibited 
some mental processes which may well receive the notice of 
meditative minds, nor until he had made himself immortal in 
the memory of some friends, who loved him because they 
knew him, and who will honor his name by the continued 
study of his character. 

MR. homer's childhood. 

William Bradford Homer was born in Boston, January 
31, 1S17. He was the second son of Mr. George J. and 
Mrs. Mary Homer. On the maternal side, he was a lineal 
descendant, of the eighth generation, from William Bradford, 
a passenger in the May-flower, and the second governor of 
Plymouth colony. From the age of five years until within 
six months of his death he was a pupil in the schools, and 
the whole course of his pupilage seems to have been one of 
success. " Behave as well as Bradford Homer," was a remark 
sometimes made by his teachers to his fellow pupils. The 
severest chastisement which he ever received from an in- 
structer, was the following admonition, '' Bradford, be care- 
ful to keep truth on your side." So deeply was his spirit 
wounded by this reprimand, that even in maturer life he 



MEMOIR. 15 

never could meet the reprover without uneasiness. He was, 
from the first, a truth-loving boy, and the mere suspicion of 
nnfaithfulness to his word, was one of the most mortifying 
punishments he could receive. 

It was a principle with his parents, as with the mother of 
George Herbert, that " as our bodies take a nourishment suit- 
able to the meat on which we feed, so our souls do as insen- 
sibly take in vice by the example or conversation with wicked 
company : that ignorance of vice is the best preservation of 
Tirtue, and that the very knowledge of wickedness is as tinder 
to inflame and kindle sin, and to keep it burning. ' In ac- 
cordance with this principle, great care was taken to prevent 
Bradford from associating with improper companions. He 
was often sent, of a holiday, with a few select associates, to 
a qniet rural residence in the vicinity of Boston, and was 
fomished there with such amusements as nurtured a distaste 
for the dissipating scenes of a parade-ground. He was kept 
a stranger to the indecorous language and sports so frequent 
among the children in large cities. No improper word 
would pass his lips, because none would enter his ear. He 
was unacquainted with the vocabulary of vice, and when he 
afterwards read it in Shakspeare, he read it with the simple- 
hearted innocence of a child. He preserved, through life, 
the same unsophisticated spirit. His words, his manners, 
and his whole appearance proved him to be guileless and un- 
tainted, " the purity of his mind breaking out, and dilating 
itself, even to his body, clothes and habitation. ' 

When about seven years of age, he went through a private 
course of exercises in elocution, under the care of Mr. Wil- 
liam Russell of Boston, and early acquired that flexibility 
and distinctness of speech, which contributed to his subse- 
quent success in the pulpit. In his eleventh year, he was 
sent to Amherst, Mass. where he spent three years as a mem- 
ber of Mt. Pleasant Classical Institution, and afterwards, with 
the exception of a single twelve-month, and of occasional 



16 MEMOIR. 

brief vacations, he never resided under his father's roof. 
Whenever the boy left home, it was with suppressed tears, 
and for a day or two after his arrival at the institution, he 
was sorely and sadly homesick. For days before the close 
of his term, his heart would leap for joy at the thought of re- 
visiting his friends ; and when, with elastic step, he had 
alighted from the stage-coach at his parent's door, he enter- 
ed the house with boundings of heart, and brought hilarity 
with him. In the words of his father, " to have seen his glad 
and happy countenance on meeting his friends, after a few 
month's separation from them, would have moved the heart 
of a stoic." That he retained his innocent dispositions dur- 
ing so long continued an exile from his kindred, is one sign 
of the excellence of his moral temperament. His early and 
protracted absence was, perhaps, more serviceable to him, 
than it would have been to ordinary children. Had his at- 
tachment to home, and his disposition to cling around a few 
intimate and choice friends been met with no opposing influ- 
ences, his character might have been deficient in the mascu- 
line virtues. But his residence among strangers obliged him 
to plan for himself, and counteracted those effeminate ten- 
dencies which are often encourao^ed in sensitive and confid- 
ing children. To the stranger who noticed his pliant man- 
ners and conciliating temper, he might have appeared to fail 
in manliness and independence ; but his intimate friends al- 
ways recognized in liim ^' a mind of his own." 

It was in August, 18*27, that he become a pupil at Mt. 
Pleasant, and his tastes were never more gratified than with 
the beauties of this enchanting spot. Here he devoted much 
attention to the cultivation of his manners, and became a 
gentleman before he was a man. He acquired that ease of 
address and gracefulness of action, which, if attained at all, 
must generally be attained in early life, and which afterwards 
secured his admission to circles of society inaccessible to 
some clergymen. Those minor accomplishments which were 



MEMOIR. 17 

not beneath the notice of a boy at eleven years of age, gave 
him an influence at twenty-four, which others, equal to him 
in unpolished worth, could not exert. Men who disliked his 
doctrines were pleased with the blandness and urbanity of 
him who enforced them, and his delicacy of form and attitude 
would recommend the severity of his reproof ^^ I like him," 
said one of his hearers, ^^ because he moves on springs." 

He was particularly studious in the Latin, ancient and 
modern Greek, and French languages. Several of his es- 
says in the ancient Greek were published in successive num- 
bers of a Juvenile Monthly, printed for the pupils of the in* 
stitution. His progress in the modern Greek was still more 
flattering. He wrote many compositions in this language, 
and delivered one of them at a public exhibition, when about 
twelve years of age. He also conversed in it with consider- 
able fluency. His teacher, Mr. Gregory Perdicari, a native 
of Greece, and now United States' consul at Athens, was in 
the habit of takinop him to various families in the town, and 
conversing with him in modern Greek, thus exhibiting him 
as a kind of literary show. Mr. Homer often alluded to this pa- 
rade as more conducive to his progress in the native language 
of Mr. Perdicari, than in humility. His vocal organs being 
remarkably ductile, and his discipline in the Greek and French 
pronunciation having been thus early and exact, he after- 
wards found but little difficulty in catching the sounds of the 
German and other languages. The recommendations which 
were written of him by his teachers at Mt. Pleasant, are such, 
that if he ever saw them, he must have been mature beyond 
his years, to have borne his faculties meekly. "• I have no 
recollection," says one of them,^ '^ that during the three years 
of his pupilage at Amherst, I ever had occasion to speak to 
him in the way of censure. It would be extraordinary in- 
deed, if he were not sometimes found in fault, subjected, as 
all the students were, to a discipline of some severity ; but if 

^ Francis Fellowes, Esq. 

2* 



I 



18 MEMOIR. 

such were the case, the general correctness of his deportment 
and amiability of his manners, have, in my mind, suffered no 
shade of it to rest upon his memory." 

It was at Mt. Pleasant, in May, 1828, that the great and 
radical change occurred in Mr. Homer's moral feelings. 
There was, at this time, a general religious excitement among 
the pupils of the institution. The spacious mansion became 
a temple of worshippers, and the contiguous grove resounded 
with the voice of prayer. Perhaps at no place is there more 
of sympathy and contagion, than at a large boarding-school 
of children, and hence the religious agitations at such a school 
need to be carefully scrutinized and wisely regulated, or they 
will be of no permanent benefit. Of the forty boys who mani- 
fested symtoms of spiritual life during this revival, not one 
fifth of the number retained their religious promise. It is to 
be regretted, that Mr. Homer has left no very specific account 
of his feelings at this critical period of his life. His letter 
announcing his conversion is a very simple one, and he seems 
to rejoice in his change, not so much because it will save his 
soul, as because it will please his father and his mother ; and 
to be anxious, not so much to persevere in the christian life, 
as to see his brothers and play-mates turn to God as he has 
done. Four years after his supposed conversion, when he 
was about to profess his religious faith, he made the follow- 
ing statement to the committee who examined him for admis- 
sion to the church. 1 '^ I was much distressed, while at Mt. 
Pleasant, in view of my sinfulness, but after two or three days, 
I indulged a hope of pardon. I had, at that time, different 
views of myself, of God and of Christ, from those which I had 
previously entertained. I felt a love for my Maker, and wish- 
ed to devote myself to his service. I began to delight in 
prayer, and in the bible, which seemed to me a new book. 
I felt anxiety for the salvation of others, and was induced to 
converse with them on personal religion. I felt reconciled 

^ He was admitted to Park-street church, Boston, in December, 1832. 



19 

to the holiDesB and justice of God, and that it would be right 
in him to cast me firom his presence. Since that time I have 
had occaaonal doubts with regard to my christian character, 
bat hare had clears riews than ever of the nature of sin and 
holiness, and <^the divine pertections." 

Socoi after his conversion, he derived great benefit from 
Spring's Essays on the Distingmshing Traits of Christian 
Character. "I used," he said, ''to take down the book, 
its particular place on a panic dar shelf^ every Sunday, 
bring my mind to its severe scrutiny ; and if during the 
we^, I was tempted to sin. a glance at the book on the shelf, 
would, as its contents frowned through the cover, deter me.*' 
One of his most characteristic letters, written about this pe- 
riod, is on the iraportam^ of secret prayer, and he appears 
to hanre conmenced his religious lite with excdlent plans in 
rcfac nce to this duty. He adhered to them with exactness 
otfl his death. The eliect of his conversic« upon his intel- 
lecto^ character was marked. He became more manly and 
mature. He also became more and more gende in his tem- 
per, and more ready to turn the other cheek to his smiling 
playmate, in one of the most characteristic letters of his 
childhood he writes to a relative, *' A little boy from Boston, 
whose parents I believe you know very well, but whose name 
I beiieTe I will not mention here, a few days ago, as I was 
playing with him, because I did something that he did not 
like, called me ' religious,' thinking that he would plague me. 
But, m £ict, it was one of the best names I had ever received. 
It was the first time that I ever heard any one call me so.'' 
^* This trivial passage I have mentioned now, not that I think 
that in itself it deserves a relation, but because as the sun is 
seen best at his risinor and setting, so men's native disposi- 
tions are clearliest perceived whilst they are children, and 
when they are dving. These little, sudden actions are the 
greatest discoverers of men's tnje humors/*^ 

1 Wcrii :fR.:c.rn E^jyle. 



20 MEMOIR. 

In August, 1831, he left the school at Mt. Pleasant, where 
it may be said of him, as Izaak Walton said of one before him, 
^' The beauties of his pretty behavior and wit shined, and be- 
came so eminent and lovely, in this his innocent age, that he 
seemed to be marked out for piety, and to become the care of 
Heaven, and of a particular good angel to guard and guide 
him. And thus he continued in that school, till he came to 
be [accomplished] in the learned languages, and especially 
in the Greek tongue, in which he after proved an excellent 
critic." 



MR. homer's early YOUTH, AND RESIDENCE AT AMHERST 

COLLEGE. 

The biography of a man of letters may often be comprised 
in these words : he was born, he studied, he published, he 
died. Of Mr. Homer, it can scarcely be said that he publish- 
ed ; for he shrunk with peculiar sensitiveness from any expo- 
sure of his compositions to public criticism. ^ There is no 
remarkable feat of his performance, no foreign travel, not 
even a personal accident, not so much as the overturning 
of a stage-coach in which he was journeying, nor the loss 
of a book, nor a week of serious illness, nor any imminent 
danger or hair-breadth escape, which can be mentioned to 
change the scene in the drama of his life. His whole biog- 
raphy must be spun out from his intellectual and hidden exis- 
tence. It is generally said of him by those who watched his 
earlier years, that he was a happy and a faultless boy. Not 
that he was free from sin, but that the graces of his character 
so won upon his observers that his foibles were less distinctly 

^ He wrote several anonymous articles for the newspapers, and for 
the Shrine, a College periodical; a brief review of Tnppan on the 
Will for the Biblical Repository, and a few notes on the poet Homer, 
for Professor Fiske's edition of Eschenburg's Manual of Classical Lit- 
erature. 



MEMOIR. 21 

noticed. Not but that he had his hours of trouble and com- 
plaining ; but ordinarily his life was blithesome and joyous. 

After leaving Mt. Pleasant in August, 1830, he pursued 
his classical studies in Boston until September, 1831. The 
succeeding year he spent at Phillips Academy, Andover, Mass. 
Toward the close of the academical year, he was appointed to 
pronounce the valedictory addresses at the ensuing anniversary 
of the school. All of his class beincr older than himself, some of 
them by six or seven years, and most of them being far more 
manly than himself in stature and appearance, he recoiled 
from this exercise, and endeavored to obtain release from it. 
But there was no exemption ; and with heartfelt pain he ap- 
peared on the platform at the head of his class. 

From Phillips Academy he removed to Amherst College, 
which he entered in September, 1832. Here he felt at home. 
This was the spot of his literary and religious nativity. He 
loved the quiet of its groves, the richness of its valleys, the 
graceful curvatures of the mountains that are round about it, 
and the sacred trains of thought that are suggested by the 
neighboring spires, the still villages, and the river that winds 
calmly by them. During his four collegiate years he resided 
in a private house, at a distance from the college buildings ; 
and althoucrh some of his fellow students who lived in those 
buildings would often find it difficult to hear the prayer bell 
in the morning, he had a quick ear in that regard, nor was 
he tardy in obeying the summons. It is easy for a student to 
become a sincere invalid on a cold morning, when some rec- 
ondite lesson is to be recited ; but Mr. Homer never under- 
stood the conveniences of collea^e sickness, and his slender 
form would press its way through the snow-drift and against 
the driving sleet, just as if there were but one course possible 
to be pursued, and that the course of duty. Says the Presi- 
dent of the institution, " When Mr. Homer entered college, 
he sustained a fine examination, and though he had several 
worthy competitors, he soon took the first rank in his class, 



22 MEMOIR. 

which he held to the end of his collegiate course. This he 
did, not by any intuitive and mysterious process, but by dili- 
gent application to study. He never dreamed, I believe, that 
he was a genius, even in his Freshman year, when so many 
flatter themselves that ^ they are the people, and wisdom will 
die with them.' Whatever shorter road there may be to the 
temple of science, he never troubled himself to inquire for it, 
but was content to toil on in the old beaten track. He made 
it a rule to get every lesson, and to get it well. I doubt 
whether he ever made a poor recitation while he was in col- 
lege." 

'^ In the forms and syntax of Latin and Greek," says Pro- 
fessor Fiske, '^ he was more thorough than is common, even 
among those generally accounted good scholars. Yet his 
mind never seemed to rest satisfied with a mere mastery of 
his author's constructions. He had a singular felicity in pene- 
trating the spirit of an ancient idiom, and bringing it out to 
view, and commending it to the feelings by an appropriate 
modern phraseology. When he had failed of making the full 
analysis of a construction, and did not detect all the elements 
of it until he had received hints or questions at the moment 
of reciting, it was sometimes delightful to notice how he 
would eagerly seize them, and comprehend at once the force 
and significancy of the combination, and present the meaning 
with singular perspicuity and elegance, clothing every idea 
with a fascinating drapery at the very instant of its concep- 
tion. This could not fail to be observed by his companions ; 
perhaps it was more fully appreciated by the teacher. If I 
sometimes helped him in breaking the shell, he always seem- 
ed to find a sweeter meat than I had tasted. While he had 
a strong relish for poetic beauty, and possessed an imagina- 
tion highly active, and truly rich in ideal pictures, he had al- 
so a striking fondness for exact thought, and for lucid order 
and symmetry in arrangement, and neatness and accuracy in 
style and performance." 



MEMOIR. 23 

In Mental and Moral Philosophy he took a pleasing inter- 
est, and some of his essays in this department would not have 
dishonored him at the age of twenty-four. When he had 
finished Butler's Analogy, he remarked, that his closing les- 
son was but the beginning of his attention to that book, that 
he should pursue the study of it as long as he lived ; and it 
is an interesting fact, that this was one of the last books which 
he studied, and among the last notes which he left in pencil- 
ling, were notes upon his favorite Analogy. 

He never resorted to any dishonorable means for obtaining 
the favor of his teachers, but he treated them with sponta- 
neous affection and respect. He considered who they were 
and where they were, and honored their office as w^ell as their 
character. He looked with utter contempt upon those no- 
tions of smartness, with which young men, especially from 
our cities, are often possessed, and by which they are led to 
disturb the order of college. When any youthful hero deem- 
ed it a point of honor for him to oppose the discipline of his 
teachers, he was taught by Mr. Homer that such bravery is 
a low and craven spirit ; that the true courage of a student 
consists in getting his lessons, and if one wishes to do some 
great thing, and make himself known as superior to vulgar 
prejudices, he must move when the bell calls him, and keep 
his door closed in study hours, and take off his hat when he 
meets a superior. 

He mingled in the social circles at college with chastened 
hilarity. In the literary associations he held ^ conspicuous 
place. He joined in their debates with enthusiasm, and bore 
the conflict of opinion with marked urbanity. He was cho- 
sen president of the Athenian Society, the Chi Delta Theta, 
and the Society of Inquiry, all of which he aided by his gene- 
rosity as well as zeal. He had much of the esprit-du-corps 
in relation to the college, and appeared to study not more for 
his own good, than to advance the literary character of the 
institution. Several brief notices which he published in the 



24 ME3I01R. 

newspapers, show how jealous he was for the honor of his Al- 
ma Mater, He early endeavored to promote an interest in 
it among its Alumni, and to strengthen the tie of brotherhood 
that united them. 

No one was ever more sincerely attached to his class-mates 
than Mr. Homer. Writing from Andover Theological Semi- 
nary, he says, ^^ I love Amherst more and more every day, 
and with something of the sensitive affection of a homesick 
child. I have not yet removed myself so far from the beauti- 
ful associations of my college life, but that I can truly say, 
that ' distance lends enchantment to the view.' The little 
items of difficulty, which form the dark shades of the picture, 
are growing dimmer and dimmer, and the outline is rising in 
graceful proportion. I look back upon our class as one beau- 
tiful whole, imperfect without its imperfections. I may find 
noble spirits here, but none nobler than theirs ; warm hearts, 
but nowhere a kinder and more cheering sympathy." 

Again he writes, '^ I assure you I have formed no friend- 
ships here, (Andover), which can compare with the friend- 
ships of college life. There is no sentiment about this re- 
mark. I love those old associations with a chaste and man- 
ly affection. I never expect any other scenes to come back 
upon my mind with such refreshing power. Have you ever 
begun with Freshman year, and traced down the history of 
your mind, your opinions, your intimacies, to the very last ? 
It is queer, but affecting. I rather suspect that not a man 
who graduated with us I could meet without a peculiar grasp 
of the hand, and an uncommon throbbing of the heart. There 
were some men in our class whom I never did like, and per- 
haps I never can. But I never can call such men hard names. 
I rather think if I should meet such a one now, my eye would 
say brother^ and my heart would beat brother, though my 
tongue did not utter the word." 

Amid all the rivalries and jealousies, the debates and tur- 
moils of collegiate life, Mr. Homer preserved that sweetness 



MEMOIR. 25 

and serenity of spirit, which the religion of Jesus is so well 
fitted to impart. He did not lose his love of home, a love 
which seldom exists in a vicious mind, and ill comports with 
the envy and rancor of aspirants for collegiate honors. The 
foilowincr letter, written during: his last year at collecre, is but 
one among numerous specimens of the pure out-flowings of 
his soul. 



" December 13, 1S35. My dear mother, — I presume that you were 
at Natick on Thanksgiving day. If so, your thoughts were undoubted- 
ly in the same place with m^ine. Both of us, though absent in the 
body, were present in spirit at home. There is no time, when my 
mind lingers so tenaciously upon the associations which T have left 
behind, and I am so ready to say, ' O that I had wings like a dove,' 
that I might fly away to mingle with them once more. I could not 
forbear the recollection, that on each of the last two anniversary sea- 
sons, there was one in our group who met with us for the last time. 
The scene was participated in by those who were almost disembodied 
spirits, — just lingering a moment before finally withdrawing themselves 
from our view. I was speaking of our regard for home being enhan- 
ced by absence. I have sometimes thought that the principle may be 
applied to our experience respecting that better home, with reference 
to which we are 'strangers and pilgrims' here. 1 know not but that 
it may be a visionary idea, but it is one of those trains of thought 
which I love to pursue. It seems to me that if we ever arrive at heav- 
en, when our toils and sufferings here are all over, our enjoyment 
must be higher than that of angels who have never left their Father's 
presence. To them he can say, as in the parable of the prodigal son, 
'Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.' But ice 
have just arrived from our long and toilsome pilgrimage. Here we 
were with all our cares and sorrows, ' without were fightings, within 
were fears;' and our sole comfort found in the anticipation of the rest 
that was in reser^^e for us. When the anticipation comes to be realized, 
and we find how infinitely the reality exceeds the expectation, and 
how gloriously faith is swallowed up in sight, it seems to me that our 
joy must be more ecstatic, as our redemption is more wonderful. But 
perhaps this is unprofitable speculation, and I was led into it before I 
was aware. It is sufficient for us if we do keep our eyes fixed stead- 
fastly upward, and oar souls longing for a release. 

I thank you very much for the extract you sent me from the Life of 

3 



26 MEMOIR. 

Parsons. You judged rightly in supposing it applicable to me. 1 
have wished again and again that I might recommence my Senior 
year. Every day seems to augment the proof, that it is a season 
when the moral impressions of college life are most deep and perma- 
nent, when the religion of the heart is assuming its shape and charac- 
ter for life. And how important is each day and each year becoming, 
as the preparation for the great work, for which I am preparing, ap- 
proaches its completion. Whatever of worldly ambition may have 
prompted me hitherto, should here be cast aside as an unholy and un- 
becoming principle. This is the time for self-sacrifices, for withdraw- 
al from the world, for a new and more binding covenant with God. 
I know it all, I can write it all, I can say it all, but I do not realize 
it. I would not venture to lay hold on the ark of God with unholy 
hands, and yet I may, unless I search my heart, and look upward for 
purifying power." 



Mr. Homer was graduated at Amherst, in September, 1836. 
The valedictory honors of his class were assigned him, though 
he had repeatedly expressed his wish that they might be 
awarded to another person whom he esteemed more worthy 
of them. He was so much affected by the scenes of his grad- 
uation, that he failed to pronounce his addresses with suffi- 
cient strength of voice. Soon afterward, he writes to a col- 
lege friend, ^' I had long anticipated the day of our graduation 
as a solemn and overwhelming occasion to my sensibilities, 
but the anticipation exceeded the reality. There was too close 
and too rapid a succession of exciting topics, each of which 
occurring alone would have been sufficient to prostrate me. 
My mind lost the discipline, my feelings avoided the shock 
which would otherwise have resulted. That was a solemn hour 
when we stood up together for the last time, with the silver 
cord just loosed, that had bound us so long. Men would not 
look upon us in that associate capacity henceforward, — God 
would so look upon us forever. But to us and the interest- 
ing audience that surrounded us, that scene, and — hurrying 
through the lightning-like course of time which would ensue, 
— the last trumpet which alone could call us all together 



^ MEMOIR. 27 

again, — how intimately connected ! But I did not realize it 
at the time." 



MR. HOMER IN A REVIVAL OF RELIGION. 

On a Sabbath morning in the early part of his Freshman 
year, Mr. Homer was called upon to offer a prayer at a pub- 
lic religious meeting. Being youthful and diffident, he de- 
clined the service. A member of an advanced class rose soon 
afterward, and uttered a severe reproof of those Freshmen 
who refused to take their part in leading the devotions of the 
students. This public reproof wounded Mr. Homer so deep- 
ly, that he could not, for a long time, attend the Sabbath 
morning prayer-meeting without uneasiness ; and so different 
was he, in his tastes and education, from many of his breth- 
ren, that he did not associate with them so much as his high- 
er interests required. Hence, for a year or more, he was 
less active in their promiscuous assemblies, than he might 
have been wisely. His religious life, though a guileless, was 
yet a hidden one. He attended with conscientious regulari- 
ty the Saturday evening prayer-meeting of his classmates, for 
with them he could feel at home. But in his Junior year, 
he began to emerge from his retirement, and to lose some- 
what of the sensitiveness which had deterred him from con- 
spicuous effort. In November, 1834, he was deeply sadden- 
ed by the death of his classmate, Mr. P. C. Walker. He did 
not lose the religious influence of this bereavement for a long 
time, and it graduahy prepared him to participate in a reli- 
gious revival which occurred soon afterward in college. 
Among the documents that he preserved with especial care 
is found the following paper, which is marked ^'private," and 
which no one ever heard of before his death. 

" Amherst College, March 27, 1635. — The Lord has in great mercy 
come very near to this institution. There has existed in tlie minds o 



28 MEMOIR. 

his children, for nearly two weeks past, a solemn sense of the pres- 
ence of the influences of the Holy Spirit which has almost prostrated 
them in the dust. Many who were wandering like lost sheep, have 
been once more gathered to the fold of the blessed Redeemer, and 
have had restored to them the joys of their first love. The operation 
of these sacred influences I seem to have felt, stealing its way through 
the adamantine casement which the world has thrown about my heart, 
and waking me from the sinful lethargy which has so long paralyzed 
my spiritual energies. 1 think I have had some sense of my own 
weakness and vileness, and have been led to prostrate myself at the 
foot of the cross, to seek for pardon and for grace to renovate the man 
of sin within me. I pray for a more overwhelming view of my past 
criminality and worthlessness, and for a more fixed determination to 
consecrate all my powers to God's service, to be his for time, and his 
for eternity. Believing that it would be for my own spiritual advan- 
tage to have by me a written covenant, into which I desire solemnly 
to enter in the presence of God, of the blessed Redeemer and of the 
Holy Spirit, I pray for their guidance and their blessing, while I ap- 
pend my name to the following resolutions : 

Resolved, — that Christ and his cause shall claim the first attention 
of my thoughts, and that it shall be my daily prayer, ' Lord what 
wilt thou have me to do,' for the honor of thy name, this day .' 

Resolved, — that I will pray more fervently to be delivered from that 
devotion to the world, which would cause its miserable vanities to 
usurp the place in my afiections which Christ ought to occupy, — that 
I may live as a stranger and a pilgrim who seeks a city yet to come. 

" The dearest idol 1 have known, 

Whate'er that idol be. 
Help me to tear it from thy throne, 

And worship only Thee." 

Resolved, — that it shall be my prayerful endeavor so to aspire af- 
ter holiness, and a constantly increasing assimilation to the divine 
character, as to be able to sympathize with the Psalmist of Israel in 
those spiritual longings so beautifully expressed, — <■ As the hart pant- 
etli after the water-brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.' 

Resolved, — that I will be engaged in no occupation upon which I 
cannot ask for God's blessing; and that I will strive to make study 
a christian duty, upon the performance of which I may enter with 
humble prayer for the divine assistance, and for the acquisition of that 



MEMOIR. 29 

intellectual discipline which will better prepare me to answer the 
great end of my being. 

Resolved, — that I will strive to have my intercourse with my fel- 
low students a christian intercourse \ that my conversation shall evince 
that the great subject of religion is uppermost in my thoughts, and 1 
may be enabled consistently to reconnnend a serious consideration of 
its claims to all who know not God, and obey not the gospel. 

The task is a great one, and the responsibility of such solemn vows 
is too awful for a weak and vile worm like myself. But my hope is 
not in an arm of flesh. 1 look to heaven for help. 

And now, Lord God, draw nigh and witness the consecration. 
Blessed Saviour, seal it with thy blood. Holy Ghost, sanctify it to 
my heart. 

Signed, William Bradford Homer.'' 

Mr. Homer's activity in this revival was prudent and cheer- 
ful. He not only forebore to make unseemly aggressions 
upon the tastes of his comrades, but he dissuaded others from 
making them. He was sagacious in his plans for obtaining 
access to those who had previously been impervious to right 
influences. Those who were unused to the stimulus of a re- 
vival, and, from their temperament, were in danger of being 
neglected by some and irritated by others, found in him a 
friend, liberal, generous, affectionate, faithful, unsparing. 
The following letters show how far he was from spiritual in- 
difference on the one hand, and fanaticism on the other. To 
his mother he writes : 

" April 9, 1835. — I presume from the reports that have been circu- 
lated, that 3'ou have been anxiously looking for information of what 
the Lord is doing for us; and I am happy in the confidence that you 
are among the mothers who never forget to pray for the spiritual pros- 
perity of this institution. Although the information I am able to com- 
municate is not so cheering as 1 could wish, and the work has not 
yet assumed that marked and ])rominent character which would render 
publicity expedient, I have felt unable to suffer you to remain any 
longer in uncertainty as to our situation ; but I must request, for rea- 
sons which will be very manifest, that you do not permit this letter to 
go from the family, and that no further use be made of its contents, 

3* 



30 MEMOIR. 

tlian to stimulate Christians to pray that we may have a more power- 
ful manifestation of grace than we have yet experienced. That there 
has been here for some weeks past, a very special influence operating 
upon the heart, almost every member of college can testify from his 
own experience. And that we have enjoyed, and are still enjoying, 
a revival of religion, in the strictest sense of the term, no one who has 
witnessed the revival of the languishing graces of God's children, and 
the deep humiliation and contrite repentance of those who had wander- 
-ed far, and forgotten their first love, can deny. Such a solemn sense of 
responsibilit}^, and such a spirit of prayer as seems to have pervaded the 
church, I have never before seen exhibited. Nor are we entirely desti- 
tute of encouragement to labor and pray for the conversion of our im- 
penitent fellow students, for we trust there aie a few who have been re- 
cently brought from nature's darkness to the marvelous light of the gos- 
pel. The subjects of the work are sufficiently numerous to make us all 
grateful, and few enough to impress upon us the importance of con- 
tinuing to wrestle in prayer, until many are brought to yield to the 
influences of the Holy Spirit in his present gracious visitation. I be- 
lieve there is a general determination on the part of Christians, to per- 
severe in their prayers and their eflbrts for the salvation of souls. 
We are in an extremely critical situation, but there can be no doubt, 
from the manifestations we have already had of God's willingness to 
bless us, that if we will but continue to be prayerful and faithful, the 
work will go on with still greater power. That we may be prepared 
for duty, we need the prayers of all who have an interest at the throne 
of grace. I presume you are ready to inquire what has been the in- 
fluence of all this upon my own religious feelin^rs, and whether my 
heart is in the work. I humbly trust that it has been blest to me, in 
tearing me, in some measure, from my attachment to the world, and 
aiding me in an entire consecration of myself to the service of Christ. 
It seems to me now, that I can occasionally have a glimpse of the un- 
speakable glory of living for Christ, and then the vanities which have 
so long engrossed my attention, appear in their real insignificance, 
and T can feel a desire to be entirely devoted to his service. But I 
am weak, and the deceitfulness of my heart makes me fear that the 
impressions I have received may be transient, and the idols I have 
cherished so long, may again resume their place, and leanness once 
more be sent upon my soul. I am disheartened and discouraged ex- 
cept wlien I look to the promises of the gospel, and find that if I will 
but be faithful tliere is no danger of fainting, for they tliat wait on the 
Lord shall run and not be weary, and walk and not faint. And I de- 



MEMOIR. 31 

rive encouragement from the thought, that you will not forget to pray, 
that I may not sujOTer this season to pass without becoming perma- 
nently hoher and better." 

April 25, IS'Soj he thus writes to his father : •• The solemnity still 
continues in college. There have been, as we hope, about twenty 
conyersions, of which six are in our class. Perhaps, however, it would 
not be best to say anything of this pubhcly. We hope to see still more 
of our classmates and friends becoming the subjects of renewing grace 
before the close of the term ; but there must be much prayer, or the 
numerous anxieties and anticipations incident upon the close of the 
term, will oblige many to suifer this precious hayest-time to close with- 
out securing the ssalyation of their souls. With regard to myself, I 
feel unworthy to say anything, but I cannot refrain from expressing an 
humble hope, that this may constitute an era in my religious course. 
It has been to me, in all probab'dity, the most important and interest- 
ing season of my life. But I feel miserably weak, and when I look 
forward to the temptations that await me, I tremble at the possibility 
of my so treating the iitfluenees of the Spirit, as to lose their perma- 
nent and lasting advantage. Such contemplations will serve, as I 
trust, to give me an entire sense of my dependence on Him in whom 
alone is my hope." 

Four years afrerward, he writes, April 26, 1839, "I look back 
upon the college revival, as one of the most critical periods of my 
whole religious history. I feel deeply guilty that I did not avail my- 
self more fully of the unusual opportimity aiforded for benefiting my- 
self and others; but I bless God for what he permitted me to gain. 
For worlds I would not have lived through that scene in coldness and 
fitupiditj, or lost the rich gifts it renewed to my soul." 

Mr. Homer was not insensible to the objections which are 
frequently urged against revivals of religion, and especially in 
oar colleges. During one period of his residence at Ando- 
ver, he was unduly influenced by these objections, but he at 
length recovered from their power. '" God," he wrote, '' has 
come so close to my own lire-side, that I cannot question the 
reality of his interposition." In an animated controversy, an 
opposer of such excitements remarked to him, that these re- 



32 MEMOIR. 

vivals generally occurred in the second term of the college 
year, and it was unreasonable to suppose that the influences 
of the Divine Spirit were limited to the months of March, 
April and May. But to this he replied, that during the first 
term the students were unacquainted with each other, a new 
class having recently entered ; that during the third term, 
there was a great tendency to dissipation of mind, in conse- 
quence of the warmth of the season, the frequent allurements 
to places of festivity, the approach of commencement, and the 
preparation of one class for departure from college ; that the 
second term was the only one remaining unbroken, and pre- 
senting those still scenes which ever invite the Spirit of peace. 
The physical condition of the students also, during this term, 
fits them peculiarly for religious contemplations. To the ob- 
jection, that these revivals interrupted the scholar's progress 
in study, he replied, that the evil, though often an attendant, 
was an unnecessary one ; that the religious excitement would 
be more protracted and more healthful if the students contin- 
ued a moderate application to their classics ; that he himself 
endeavored to preserve as much regularity in his scientific 
pursuits during a revival, as during a period of religious apa- 
thy, and that, in some respects, his mind was better fitted for 
study by the extraordinary efforts of the conference and in- 
quiry room. To the objection that there was too great an ac- 
cumulation of incentive applied to the mind of an impenitent 
student at such a time, too many and too earnest exhortations 
addressed to him, he replied, that this also need not be ; that 
prudence was needful on the part of Christians, and was easy 
to be exercised ; that they need not and should not converse 
at hap-hazard with their fellows tudents, but should know 
what had been previously said, and what was now important 
to be added; that the christian scholar should be peculiarly 
delicate in his approaches to his companions, and should in- 
sinuate his exhortations, rather than cast them abruptly upon 



MEMOIR. 33 

the mind, and that he should practise all those winning graces 
of manner which will allure to a pleasant consideration of a 
theme naturally distasteful. 

HABITS OF SELF-CONTEMPLATIOX. 

There is so little of outward adventure in the life of a stu- 
dent, that he forms the habit of turning his eye inward. He 
is not carried along with the whirl of business, so as to pre- 
clude his frequent questionings with himself. Who am I ? 
Where,- whence am I ? Whither, how am I going 1 And 
when his prospects for mental improvement are darkened, 
when disease threatens to cripple his intellect, or misfortune 
closes the volume of wisdom to his eyes, he has misgivings 
of heart which he will tell of to no one but his God. The 
most touching words ever penned by Buckminster, are those 
which he wrote in his twenty-first year, when he began to 
feel the premonitions of a wasting intellect. " I pray God,'' 
he writes, " that I may be prepared, not so much for death, 
as for the loss of health, and, perhaps, of mental faculties. 
The repetition of these fits must, at length, reduce me to 
idiocy. Can I resign myself to the loss of memory, and of 
that knowledge I may have vainly prided myself upon ? O 
God ! enable me to bear this thought, and make it familiar to 
my mind, that by thy grace I may be willing to endure life, 
as long as thou pleasest to lengthen it. It is not enough to 
be willing to leave the world, when God pleases ; we should 
be willing, even to live useless in it, if he, in his holy provi- 
dence, should send such a calamity upon us. I think I per- 
ceive my memory fails me. O God save me from that hour !" 

Tlie subject of this memoir was fond of looking within 
himself, of measuring his capacities, of scanning his faults 
and scrutinizing the probable grounds of his future failures 
or successes. Nor were his self-contemplations always health- 
ful. He had too many forebodings that his youthful })romise 



34 MEMOIR. 

would not be realized in his subsequent attainments. It can- 
not be said that he had been a child of precocious genius. 
He had performed no intellectual feat like that of Hartley, 
who devised the plan of his great work, while at the age of 
nine or ten he was swinging on his father's gate, or of Rob- 
ert Hall, who read the profoundest treatises in our language 
before he had reached his eleventh year ; but there had been 
an uncommon balance of the mental and moral powers in the 
childhood of Mr. Homer, and also a maturity of religious 
principle. He had been still and retiring while other chil- 
dren were leaping in the ring, and he had attained more sym- 
metry of mental character, and a more complete scholarship, 
than others of greater native talent and less industry. It was 
not singular, that with his meditative cast of mind, he should 
often inquire whether his known superiority were merely 
ephemeral, depending entirely on his factitious advantages 
and on youthful impulses. There is an excellence which 
belongs to a young man and fades away with advancing years, 
or even becomes a fault at middle age. Many who have pos- 
sessed it, and have died in the morning of life, acquired a 
greater distinction than they could have retained ; and their 
early death was the seal of their future fame. Mr. Homer of- 
ten feared that his own mental acquisitions would be less use- 
ful in manhood, than they were flattering in his minority. 
The very existence of his fears indicates that they were ground- 
less. His mental course was onward till his dying day, and 
his attainments were both designed and fitted for future use- 
fulness more than for present distinction. His efforts were 
preparatory. The most labored part of his writings was in 
the form of hints and notes for future use. His eye was fixed 
upon manhood as the harvest season, for which, in the sprhig- 
time of life, he must sow the seed with diligence. But the 
character of his studies did not remove the fear, that the indi- 
cations of his youth would be remembered as the buddings 
of a flower that never blossomed. He meditated more on the 



MEMOIR. 35 

early history of those remarkable children who never became 
remarkable men, than on the childhood of Des Cartes, Bacon, 
Boyle, Newton, Jones, Johnson, Franklin, and indeed a ma- 
jority of our intellectual masters. Sometimes, in the twilight, 
he would be found sitting in his room alone and pensive. 
He would not disclose his sorrows, but he had been holding 
converse with his past hours, and learning from them the 
vanity of even the joys that were in store. Sometimes would 
he be seen walking in solitude and with a downcast look ; 
and the saddened tones of his voice would show that his 
thoughts had been wandering amid the dark scenes of life. 
Often, when a question was put to him, it would remain un- 
answered longer than politeness allowed, for he was absorbed 
in some meditations that he could not express. But occa- 
sionally he would open his heart to a friend, and tell the re- 
sults of his introspection and retrospection. '' To-day,'' he 
says, ^' I have been reading over the compositions of my child- 
hood. They form the most instructive volume in my library. 
They teach me to be humble, and to fear God, and to trust 
in heaven, and to lay up no treasures on the earth." A few 
passages from his letters, written at Amherst and Andover, 
will unfold his habit of religious meditation, his love of intro- 
verting the mental eye, and his tendency to that occasional 
gloom, which is either the prerogative or the misfortune of 
sensitive men. 

"April 20, 1834. (Sophomore year at college). — Spring has just 
begun to bud and blossom in Amherst, and we are now in the enjoy- 
ment of the most delightful weather. A few weeks will close a term 
in some respects eventful, and will find me I fear, but a few steps on 
my way, and with far less advancement in spiritual character than I 
have had opportunity to make. How much do these rapid transitions 
from term to term in college, remind one of the changes of life. All 
pass rapidly away. It seems but a few days since I was a tlioughtless, 
light-minded school-boy, and now I am just beginning to think of the 
great object of my existence. It will be but a short time, before col- 
lege scenes and college studies will give place to the more important 



36 MEMOIR. 

preparation for the duties of a profession. Then will come life, — to 
which all that has preceded, has been but as the preface of a book. 
Read a few pages and you come to the conclusion — death ! What 
creatures we are ! And in view of the vanity of our lives, how ready 
ought we to be to give ourselves up entirely to the service of God." 

June 23, 1834. " I am this term alone, as I mentioned in my last, 
and it is my present intention to remain so, if circumstances permit, 
through the remainder of my college course. I have had as kind and 
pleasant a room-mate as I could have wished, but I am extremely 
doubtful as to the general influence of that close and uninterrupted 
companionship, upon persons in my situation. There is unquestion- 
able benefit to be derived from such a plan, but I think it is more than 
over-balanced by the opportunity afforded in a solitary room for that 
silent and uninterrupted meditation, which is so necessary to the stu- 
dent. Not that I am becoming a hermit, for tliere is enough of the 
bustle of society for any one, when I am obliged to leave my room 
and mingle in college associations. But when I return, instead of 
finding more society there, I ought to be alone^ and in retirement to 
ponder the lessons on human character, which may have been thrown 
in my way when I have been abroad. I am certainly surrounded at 
present with all the advantages I could possibly enjoy, and I trust 1 
shall be enabled to make a right use of them." 

September 6, 1835, to a college classmate : " Could you read my 
thoughts as they had been a book, for the past week, you would find 
something to laugh at, something to frown at, something to weep at, 
and, if I mistake not your (temperament), something in hieroglyphics 
which you could not decipher or understand. And now what and 
where am I .^ I look to the past, to its solemn vov/s of consecration, 
of non-conformity, to its bitter experiences of sin and temptation and 
disappointment. I look to the future, — a few days of misty and un- 
certain prospect, but the great universal ' vanishing-point' of eternity 
just as sure as my own existence. I look to the bible, and the words 
' strancors and pilgrims' meet my eye. 'Strangers and pilgrims!' 
and, blessed be God, that is not all ; but, — ' who seek a city yet to 
come, even a heavenly,' where there is a balm for every wound, a pil- 
low for every weary one. ' Strangers and pilgrims !' and I have been 
thinking to-night how foolish we are in idealizing what is but earthly 
at best, and when we are not content with present realities, reveling 
in what must be, of its very nature, not a whit more substantial, in- 
stead of making our imaginations the temple of the spiritual man. 



MEMOIR. 37 

But I fear this is a misty sentence. I simply mean, my friend, that 
the Christian can and ought to build his castles not in air, but in 
heaven." 

In the same year he writes to a classmate, " There have been days 
when I was almost sad that my life had not terminated with my col- 
lege course, for I felt that I was doomed to a puny growth, and it 
would have been a relief to me if my death rather than my life should 
crush the hopes of my friends. But that was sinful pride. I knew it. 
I did try to leave the discouragements which, in a morbid multitude, 
seemed to be pressing upon me. And if any thing gave me relief it 
was submission to the will of a divine and merciful Parent. I feel 
some happiness in such submission. There will be moments when 
peace will be whispered to the most agitated bosom, — in prayer. And 
remember, there is one whose imperfect petitions often mingle with 
his own desires, the thought of your growth in holiness, your crown 
in heaven." 

February 6, 1836. (Senior year at college.) — "The present term 
has opened quite pleasantly and promises to be one of great labor. I 
mean that it shall be with me. It mortifies me excessively when I 
look back on the three years and a half which I have spent in the en- 
joyment of these advantages for improvement, and find how I have 
frittered myself away. More than all it liumbles me when I think 
how little I have penetrated my own heart; what small progress 1 
have made in self-acquaintance, and how needful it is for me, in or- 
der to repress my pride, to think often and solemnly of the weak points 
in my character. It is not with you^ as it has been with me. You 
have just commenced your course, while I can think of myself only 
as about to close an important part of mine. College life has been to 
me a sort of parenthesis, distinct in itself, yet useful chiefly in its bear- 
ings upon what succeeds. It should be a great preparatory school, not 
merely in the intellectual discipline which it affords, or the knowledge 
which it imparts, but in the science of self-government of which the 
principles are here developed, to the perception of all who have ears 
to hear and eyes to see. But when I remember how often I have 
closed my mind against the rich lessons which I might have learned, 
and how little effort I have been making to apply the experience of 
my daily life to the great business of knowing and mastering myself, 

' Mr. James G. Brown. 



38 MEMOIR. 

I confess I am fearful that I am not ready for the responsibilities of an 
educated man, more than all, of a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ. 
Time is hastening me on to the close of my college life. I seem to 
stand on an eminence. The great field of my anticipated labor with 
its rich and waving harvest meets my eye, but how little does it affect 
my heart ! O let me improve each moment as it passes, in prepar- 
ation for that glorious work. Let me gird on the gospel implements 
and prepare to thrust in the sickle. Let me labor long and unwearied- 
ly where my great Master shall direct. And then when that life, of 
which the four years of my college course are an emblem, shall also 
be closing, and I stand straining my eye for the prospect of my eternal 
home, richer fields and golden harvests may be spread out before the 
vision of my faith. Excuse, my dear friend, these rambling thoughts, 
which interest me, I am well aware, more than they do you ; but if 
by communicating, I can fix them more deeply in my own heart, you 
will not be altogether uninterested." 

"Feb. 18, 1837. (Junior year at Andover). — Last Tuesday was the 
most miserable day I ever experienced. I arose in the morning jaded 
and depressed. It was the turn of the eighty-eighth Psalm to present 
itself to my devotional meditations, and it seemed a remarkable provi- 
dence, as a more precise and accurate mirror of my own feelings 
could nowhere have been selected. It was no religious exercise, I 
frankly own, but in the solitude of my gloom, I am almost ashamed 
to confess it, I did pour out my soul like water over that Psalm. Such 
prospects of discouragem.ent as pressed themselves upon me, I pray 
to be relieved from henceforth and forever. There is one dreadful 
thought, that at such moments comes upon my mind. I would whis- 
per it in your ear. It is that my mind has already reached its matu- 
rity, that I shall never grow to a larger than my present intellectual 
stature. My developments were early, perhaps too early. I have al- 
ways been beyond my years. And you know that it is no unusual 
phenomenon that minds too soon matured are of a stinted growth, 
and those who were men in boyhood become boys in manhood. I 
know that this is a wicked thought. It may be the conception of a 
diseased imagination. It undoubtedly is the offspring of a pride of 
intellect, rather than of that humble and submissive spirit which bows 
in meek resignation to the will of God. But it is a dreadful thought 
in itself, and in its accompaniments, when I think of the disappoint- 
ment of the affectionate hopes that have been centred in me. God 
forgive me, if I ever think of honoring the earthly objects of my love 
more than the heavenly." 



MEMOIR. 39 

July 1, 1840. (Senior year at Andover.) — " In a late singular book, 
there is one passage that speaks to my own spiritual condition, and 
has sometimes touched my heart with a power that is almost wild. — 
' Look not mournfully into the past. It comes not back again. Wise- 
ly improve the present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy 
future, without fear and with a manly heart.' " 

It may be said that some of the foregoing passages betray 
pride and ambition in their author. He had some pride ; 
and who has not ; who, especially, that has enjoyed a life of 
uniform distinction ? But it was not pride, far from it ; it 
w^as meekness, and modesty, and an humble temper, that 
characterized his daily intercourse. True, he had a high 
self-respect, and it raised him above the meannesses to which 
a selfish man is prone. His keen sense of honor answered 
the purpose of a second conscience, and he was too high- 
minded to flatter or to prevaricate or connive at any sly and 
insidious manoeuvre. He was too proud to make any use of 
Lord Bacon's maxim, that ^^ the best composition and tem- 
perature is to have openness in fame and opinion, secrecy in 
habit, dissimulation in seasonable use, and a power to feign 
if there be no remedy." He was frank because he respect- 
ed himself, but whenever he found that his self-esteem was 
becoming inordinate, he employed expedients too humiliating 
to be related, for subduing the evil. 

That he had some ambition too, will not be denied. Sen- 
sitiveness was his permeating quality, and as he was sensitive 
to everything else, so was he to the esteem of his fellow men. 
Having a strong aspiration after all good, he was not regard- 
less of the good tliere is in the esteem of the wise. The love 
of excelling he considered an original principle of our nature, 
not to be eradicated, but controlled. He did not pretend to 
have banished it from himself, as some men have pretended, 
and have therefore courted the praise of the world for their 
superiority to the love of praise ; but he struggled and |)rayed 
that his native desire of excellence might be turned into the 



40 MEMOIR. 

channel of virtue, and operate as a simple desire of rising in 
holiness and in the favor of God. During a long and con- 
fiding intimacy with him, I never detected the least symptom 
of envy, nor any inclination to an artifice for self-promotion. 
I never heard him whisper a syllable against any one who 
might be considered his rival, but he always extolled his com- 
panions in proportion as they came near or went beyond his 
own attainments. He was more fond of confessing a fault 
than of pretending to a virtue, and he often acknowledged 
his ignorance, but seldom told of his acquisitions. It seemed 
that his desire of excelling so far as it degenerated into a 
faulty ambition, was far less faulty than the indolence of those 
w^ho fear to move upward lest they should become vain and 
airy, and therefore sink downward into an imbecile and stu- 
pid life. 

It may be objected, that the secret confessions of fault 
which the preceding letters contain should not be exposed to 
the world. They would not be, if the present memoir were 
designed for a eulogy. They would not be, if the character 
of its subject needed to be glossed over and his foibles artful- 
ly concealed. But of what advantage is a biography above a 
fictitious tale, when but half the truth is told, and the char- 
acter of a man is painted as that of an angel ? The christian 
philosopher objects to novels because they give false views of 
life and benumb our sympathies with man as he is actually 
found. And what are too many of our biographies but like- 
nesses of nothing which is in heaven above, or in the earth be- 
neath, or in the waters under the earth ? The true idea of a 
memoir is, that it shall impart the general and combined im- 
pression of its subject, that it shall give no undue prominence 
to his foibles, nor make a needless exposure of his uncovered 
sins, and shall by no means imply that a man may live selfish- 
ly among us, and be canonized when he has gone from us ; 
that he may sin cunningly here, and only his virtues shall be 
rehearsed hereafter. As the love of posthumous favor is one 



MEMOIR. 41 

incentive to virtue, so the fear of censure from our survivors 
is a dissuasive from vice. 



MR. HOMER AT THE THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY. 

After his graduation, Mr. Homer was desired by some of 
his friends to spend a year in the instruction of youth. It 
was thought that his labors in such a sphere would help to 
prepare him for the hardnesses and conflicts of professional 
life. He had been in the schools from his early childhood, 
had encountered but little of the selfishness and bluntness of 
the world, and a divorcement from the select circles in which 
he had mingled would give him one important kind of dis- 
cipline which thus far he had not received. But he was wed- 
ded to his studies, and the thought of interrupting them was 
more than his literary spirit could endure. He accordingly 
entered the Theological Seminary at Andover, in October, 
1836. Soon after the commencement of his studies, he writes 
to an intimate friend, 

November 4, 1836, " There is an altar to which we have common 
access. Remember me there. For myself, in the new and interest- 
ing situation, in which I am placed, with my hand just touching the 
ark of God, and my mind advancing every day to the crisis of its de- 
velopment, I have never so deeply realized the necessity of looking 
upward for guidance and support. ' Without are fightings, within are 
fears.' A few weeks will undoubtedly decide whether I am to do 
much or little in my Master's service. And how consoling to me the 
reflection, that other hearts in christian sympathy are bearing the 
same burden to the same mercy seat. 1 have read somewhere, per- 
haps it is in Jeremy Taylor, that the union of prayer in Christians, 
(however widely separated), for the same object, is like the clouds of 
incense ascending from different altars, and in separate columns, but 
blending in rich and graceful harmony above." 

December 18, 1836, he writes, " The work which 1 have in view 
seems every day to be enlarcfing before me, and I am constantly re- 
minded of the importance of such industry and regularity as must op- 

4* 



42 MEMOIR. 

erate as a check on many of my enjoyments. I believe that I have ac- 
quired some new views upon this subject, since I came to Andover, 
which make my college life and acquisitions look very insignificant. 
Yet it should always be my desire and aim, not to confine myself to 
mental cultivation, but to be making constant eflTorts for spiritual 
advancement, that I may grow in knowledge and in grace together." 

Soon after he entered the institution, he began to meditate 
upon the course of his future life. He first attended to the 
claims of the heathen upon his services. He writes to two of 
his friends the following account of his meditations : 

"February 12 and 18, 1837. — 1 mentioned to you just as we sepa- 
rated last Sunday evening, that my mind haxi been considerably oc- 
cupied of late, with the claims of the missionary service. I prefer 
that you say nothing about it at present, as how soon, or how, the ques- 
tion may be decided is uncertain. On the first Monday in January 
last, (1837), 1 commenced the examination of the subject, without the 
least doubt as to the manner in which it would be settled. I tried to 
consider the subject prayerfully, and 1 confess my views and feelings 
did undergo a decided revolution. I found that some arguments which 
I had thought conclusive in favor of my remaining at home, were 
without foundation. I think that on that day, the attractions of home 
and country and friends, and the bright visions of future happiness 
which I had cherished, were robbed of their charm, and I saw the 
full wants of perishing millions, myself in darkness upon a single 

point."* " When the peculiar sensitiveness of my temperament, the 

strength of my attachment to home, the habit of dependence I had al- 
ways cultivated, all seemed to hold me back, I asked myself if Henry 
Martyn had not these infirmities to a far greater extent, if he did not 
leave his home under circumstances more affecting and wounding to 
those sensibilities, than could accompany me, and did not God raise 
him above them all ? With half his piety, with half his scholarship, 
with half his devotion to the work, a tenth part of neither of which I 
can now aspire to, yet by cultivation and industry and resolution I 
might attain, would not God bless my feeble labors, and make me in 
such a sphere a happy and a useful man .' Ah, my dear friend, this 
is not a question between the infirmities of the flesh, and the claims 
of God, but between the opposing calls of duty ; not a question be- 
tween earthly enjoyment and self-sacrifice, but between duty and du- 



MEMOIR. 43 

ty. Can I be more useful abroad than at home ? Upon this now 
rests the whole question. My facility in the acquisition of languages 
would give me the advantage over many, perhaps over most that go 
on missions. But is my mind better adapted for communicating with 
such spirits as are found on heathen, or on christian shores .'' Can 
my influence be most extensive and most blessed abroad, or at home ? 
Here I wait for light. The remarkable change which took place in 
my views when I prayed for divine direction, I am sometimes inclined 
to regard as the only indication which God will give of my personal 
duty. Yet I would not be hasty. A mistake abroad is worse than a 
mistake at home ; the one may be rectified in time, the other never. 
If I could go with the assurance that I might strengthen the hands of 
my fellow laborers, instead of proving to them an insupportable bur- 
den, I believe in the view I have sometimes taken of earthly attach- 
ments, I could leave the brightest visions I have ever dwelt upon. 
What is life, — so short, and eternity so near at hand. If I have suc- 
ceeded in making myself intelligible, write me your views upon the 
subject." 

After a severe conflict between opposing claims, Mr. Ho- 
mer finally concluded, that his duty was to remain at home. 
He next examined the question whether he should look to 
the ministry as the sphere of his principal labors, or to the 
office of a teacher ; and he decided that his peculiar tastes 
and aptitudes promised him a greater degree of usefulness 
in the chair of instruction than in the pulpit. It became, 
therefore, his fixed purpose to qualify himself as far as he 
could in his leisure hours for the duties of a teacher. With 
this view he intended to pass two or three years at the Ger- 
man Universities, as soon as he had attained some experience 
in the ministry. He by no means meant to forego the privi- 
leges and the pleasures of a pastor's life; he chose to bear 
for a season the responsibilities of a parish minister ; so might 
he become more familiar with the influences and the ener- 
gies of the gospel, deepen his interest in the religious welfare 
of his race, and learn the sacred arts of persuading men to 
virtue. He wished, also, to enliven his sympathies with the 
various classes of men, and to acquire that freshness of feel- 



44 MEMOIR. 

ing which the atmosphere of a literary institution needs ra- 
ther than gives. By this discipline he hoped through the 
grace of God, to sanctify his literary influence. 

In the spring of 1837, he left the seminary for a year, con- 
tinuing his residence at Andover, and enjoying many privi- 
leges of the Institution. He adopted this plan, partly for the 
purpose of enjoying a more complete course of biblical in- 
struction, than the ill health of Professor Stuart vrould allov^ 
him to give to the class w^ith which Mr. Homer had been 
connected, partly for the purpose of privately reviewing his 
Hebrew studies, and writing analyses of several of the sacred 
books ; and partly for a more enlarged and comprehensive in- 
vestigation of both the classical and the sacred Greek. In 
addition to these labors, he paid some attention to the Arabic 
language, and still more to the German. During the year 
he was without any restraint save that of his own moral prin- 
ciple, but he never was more energetic or industrious. He 
was as methodical in the division of his time as if he were 
regulated by the seminary bell. In the course of this year, 
November 11, 1837, he writes as follows : ^' I have been very 
hard at work since my return with the exception of two or 
three days. Eleven hours in the day, from eight in the morn- 
ing till ten in the evening, I devote to my studies. This I men- 
tion not from any feeling of vanity, but to show that I am not 
the loafer here that I am in Boston." When he had again 
connected himself with the seminary, he writes, '' Yesterday 
I surrendered my liberty, that is, again made myself a subject 
of the laws of the Theological Seminary. I do not know 
how well I shall * whip into the traces.^ The proof I have 
given of my ability to take care of myself, is no proof of the 
ability of the law to take care of me." 

Indeed it was one of the marked features of Mr. Homer's 
mind to observe a strict regularity and order in all things. 
It was an instinct with him to act according to plan. He 
made no parade about it, he adhered to system because he 



MEMOIR. 45 

loved system, because system grew with him and he with it. 
His whole life was mapped out before him, and to the hours 
of every day were assigned their respective labors. It is said 
of Dr. Kirkland, President of Harvard College, that '* it was 
not uncommon for him to bring into the pulpit half a dozen 
sermons or more, and, on the instant, construct from their 
pao;es a new sermon as he went alonor turning the leaves 
backwards and forwards, and connecting them together by 
the thread of his extemporaneous discourse. These scatter- 
ed leaves resembled those of the Sybil, not only in their con- 
fusion, causing many to marvel how he could marshal and 
manage them so adroitly, but also in their deep and hidden 
wisdom, and in the fact that when two thirds of what he had 
thus brought into the pulpit was omitted, — thrown by as un- 
worthy of delivery, — the remaining third which he uttered 
was more precious than the entire pile of manuscript, con- 
taining, as it did, the spirit and the essence, the condensed 
and concentrated wisdom of the whole. "^ Such a confusion 
of the materials of thought would be one of the last features 
of Mr. Homer's mind, even in an extreme old age. All his 
academy compositions he had arranged in one packet, his 
college compositions in another, his literary addresses, poeti- 
cal effusions, etc. in a third ; his notes upon his classical and 
theological studies he had accurately classified ; his essays 
on the doctrines of the gospel were prepared as if for the 
press, and were preserved as the foundation of a series of 
doctrinal discourses which he had planned before the close of 
his middle year. Many of his manuscript sermons, though 
never copied, were written as if he were anticipating what 
was furthest possible from his thoughts, that they would be 
printed verbatim et literatim. In looking over his papers 
thus arranged and systematized, one would think of the re- 
mark made by Curran to Grattan, as one which never could 

^ Rev. Mr. Young's Discourse on the Life and Character of Presi- 
dent Kirkland, p. 41. 



46 MEMOIR. 

be made to Mr. Homer — ^^ You would be the greatest man 
of our age, if you would buy up a few yards of red tape, and 
tie up your bills and papers." 

While at Andover his mind seemed to acquire new^ rapidity 
of movement. It was surprising to his friends that he could 
accomplish so much. He kept himself minutely acquainted 
with the political news of the day, was familiar with its cur- 
rent literature ; every new book which was published he 
would form some kind of acquaintance with, and was far as 
any one from neglecting the appropriate exercises of his class. 
All that he did he perfected with singular ease, seldom ap- 
peared to be hurried, but was happy with his books, and en- 
joyed them as companions. 

Throughout his seminary, as well as his collegiate life, he 
avoided promiscuous company. From feeling rather than 
from principle, he followed the rule, ** Be kind to all, friendly 
with some, intimate with few." He was too exclusive in his 
intercourse with certain companions in study, and he too sel- 
dom sought the acquaintance of others. Not that he was a 
recluse, or had the feelings or manners of an anchorite ; he 
seemed to be familiar with the usages of the best society ; but 
he lived above them, though not regardless of them, and pre- 
ferred his intellectual pleasures to the intercourse of fashion- 
able circles. To some of his friends he remarked, when a 

Senior at Amherst, ^' Yesterday, Mr. , by dint of long 

persuasion, induced me to get into a chaise with him and 
ride over to Hatfield. He wished, he said, to show me more 
of the world, than I had yet seen. I enjoyed my visit might- 
ily, and formed a higher opinion of mankind than from the 
maxims of Rochefoucault I was expecting to form." 

In the winter of Mr. Homer's Middle year at Andover, he 
received the appointment of Tutor at Amherst College. He 
was solicited, earnestly and repeatedly, by several of his 
friends at Amherst and Andover, to accept the appointment, 
but in vain. He had settled the plan of his future life, 



MEMOIR. 47 

and no entreaties could prevail with him to relinquish or in- 
terrupt it. He thus writes on the subject to a classmate : — 
'^ You will no doubt be surprised at my decision to decline 
the Tutorship at Amherst. It is not a hasty one. I have 
had the subject before my mind ever since I left college, and 
have often anticipated the situation with great pleasure. But 
for almost a year it has been my undoubting conviction that 
my duty calls me immediately to complete my theological 
studies, and enter the profession where I doubt not my Mas- 
ter designs I should serve him for a season. I say /br a 
season, for I ought not to conceal from you, what you have 
yourself once intimated, that I do not look upon the ministry 
as the sphere of my permanent operation, or greatest useful- 
ness. The more full development of certain tastes, which 
were partially exhibited during my college course, has led 
me to apply myself almost exclusively to studies, which, while 
they delight and profit me, are, I would hope, furnishing me 
with some preparation to spend the greater part of my life 
among scenes which I was born for, and which I should de- 
light to call my home." 

The reader will be more readily let into Mr. Homer's 
study at Andover, by perusing a few extracts from his cor- 
respondence, than by any lengthened description. 

"August 4, 1838. — As to the question of authorship, I have no in- 
tention at present, at least, of venturing into that uncertain wilder- 
ness. Of all subjects, the poet Homer would be the one I should 
choose, as I am better acquainted with it than with any other, and 
have furnished myself within a year or two with the materials for a 
pretty extensive work. But my purposes are far more modest. Hav- 
ing completed the writings attributed to Homer, I wished to satisfy 
myself upon the existence of such an individual. I have been for 
several weeks examining the German tlieory of Homer, and I have 
perfectly satisfied my mind that it is all moon-shine. I have come to 
the conclusion, not only that the Iliad is the single production of one 
author, but that in all probability the Iliad and Odyssey are the pro- 
duction of one and the same individual. I do rejoice, most heartily, 



48 MEMOIR. 

in the ability to be in poetry, (not to speak it profanely), a monotheist. 
Excuse my egotism. I think I have heard you express a contrary 
opinion on this topic, and were it not for my utter detestation of lite- 
rary correspondence, I should challenge you to an immediate discus- 
sion. Blackwell's work I have not yet read, but expect from it abun- 
dant entertainment." 

" September 8, 1838. — I have recently obtained a complete list of 
Macaulay's articles, and have been reading them in course. There 
is a splendid article on Dryden, another on Johnson, another on 
Machiavelli, and another on Pitt, besides several grand liistorical arti- 
cles. That is the man for me. We are endeavoring to get up an edi- 
tion of his miscellaneous writings on a plan similar to Emerson's edi- 
tion of Carlyle. ' Not that we love Caesar less, but that we love Rome 
more.' We have written to England to Macaulay and Lord Napier, 
(editor of the Edinburgh Review), and should we be thence encour- 
aged to proceed, the work will go on without delay. A prospectus 
has already been somewhat prematurely issued by Weeks and Jordan of 
Boston." 

" November 3, 1838. — I returned to this delightful spot, (Andover) 
a little more than a week ago, and am now regularly started in my 
course of study for the term. I occupy my forenoons with Theology, 
my afternoons with German, and my evenings with Demosthenes ; 
which last I like hugely, as I find in the edition I purchased in Bos- 
ton all the helps that a student can possibly need. With regard to 
text books in theology, I own Dick and D wight, and have out of the 
library Knapp, Storr and Flatt, and Hopkins, as standard authorities, 
besides miscellaneous controversial documents on particular points. 
I consider Knapp as worth a thousand, and value him more than all 
the rest together. His chief excellence consists in exposing the loose 
reasoning of the advocates of truth, of which in ordinary theologians 
1 find a great abundance. Dick is too little of a biblical scholar, and 
Dwight sometimes gives us a rion sequitur^ but Knapp clears away 
the wood, hay and stubble with which most other writers have decked 
up and fortified the gospel edifice, and shows us only the polished 
stones.'' 

" June 8, 1839. — It is a long time since I addressed you from this 
solitary room. But here they all are, the books, the maps, the table 
and the inkstand, as I left them ; and here I sit with my white jacket, 
before me the sheet that is my speaking-trumpet to you, behind me 



MEMOIR. 49 

the open windows, the balmy air and the melody of birds. I have 
been hoping and praying that I may be enabled on the morrow to 
commence aright the duties of the new term." 

" December 14, 1839. — Three of our students have formed a little 
coterie for the purpose of examining and discussing theological sub- 
jects. We meet twice a week at my room. We also have once a 
week an evening exercise in homiletics, at my room, when one of us 
recites the substance of an original discourse, the other two officiating 
as hearers." 

" January 3, 1840. — I anticipate this as a year of thrilling interest 
to me, no doubt the most momentous of my life. It will be the year 
of my commission as a minister of God, the first year of the great 
work of my life. For the first time I shall emerge from the prepara- 
tory stages in which I have heretofore been occupied, and put on the 
garb of practical manhood." 

" March 26, 1840. — I have now pretty much completed the severer 
duties of the term, having finished six sermons. I have been deliver- 
ing two lectures on Jeremy Taylor before a select club. They were 
extemporaneous, and each two hours long." — " I have read seven 
critiques upon characters in Shakspeare before another club formed 
for English criticism. I am beginning to go for clubs and coteries. 
Solitary study I find does not bring out the whole man. Combine 
the solitary with the social is the rule." 

From the preceding letters the reader will perceive, that 
notwithstanding Mr. Homer's intention to spend the great- 
er part of his life in the chair of literary instruction, he 
yet applied himself to the duties of a preacher with all the 
enthusiasm which he had hitherto devoted to his more private 
studies. The laws of the Theological Seminary require each 
member of the Senior class to write four sermons durinor the 
year. This small number is demanded, because it is esteem- 
ed far more important for a minister, in his novitiate, to write 
well, than to write much. But Mr. Homer wrote three times 
the number of sermons which the law requires, and became 
as eager to preach them, as he had been desirous hitherto of 
avoiding public observation. So long had he been confined 

5 



50 MEMOIR. 

to preparatory labors, that he became impatient for the active 
duties of his profession, and seemed to leap for joy at the pros- 
pect of doing good in the pulpit. His mind sprung like a bow 
hastening to discharge its arrow. He had been judicious here- 
tofore, in the mode of spending his vacations, he had devoted 
them to the recreating of his mind and his body, and had re- 
garded as somewhat comical the remark of Wyttenbach, that 
vacations were designed for teachers to relax their powers, 
and for pupils to review their studies. But at the close of 
his first Senior term at Andover, when his mind had been ag- 
itated by the severest affliction of his life, and he had still per- 
formed an unusual amount of intellectual labor, he was per- 
suaded to spend the seminary recess in pastoral duties at South 
Berwick, Maine. The first vacation in which he evidently 
needed repose, was the first in which he refused to take it. 
To several of his friends, he gives the following account of his 
labors : *^ I preached a third service in Boston last Sabbath 
evening, and although Monday and Tuesday I felt as well as 
ever, yet I think I must have over-strained myself, and pre- 
pared for the lamentable result. On Wednesday I had a 
touch of the real bronchitis, which, since that time has as- 
sumed the various forms of cold, cough, hoarseness, sore lips, 
till at length it has deepened into that most unpoetical, vexa- 
tious disease, a cold in the head. I conduct a prayer meet- 
ing on Sunday evenings, and preach a lecture on Friday eve- 
nings. When this interesting cold in my head allows me to 
do anything, I enjoy myself much in reading and writing. 
Last week I wrote two sermons, beside reading Carlyle, John 
Foster, Longfellow's Hyperion, (choice)." — " I ought not in 
any case to have spent my vacation in the labors which I 
have been performing, especially when I was as unwell as 
when I left Boston. I have very narrowly escaped a fever 
since being here." 

But notwithstanding his want of repose, he appeared at the 
seminary during its summer session, as elastic as ever, and as 



MEMOIR. 51 

punctual at the required exercises ; wrote his essay on the 
Posthumous Power of the Pulpit, with which he closed the ser- 
vices of his class at their Anniversary, wrote his oration on the 
Dramatic Element in Pulpit Oratory, which he delivered on 
leaving the president's chair of the Porter Rhetorical Socie- 
ty, decided one of the most important questions of his life, 
that of his immediate settlement in the ministry, composed 
four sermons, and preached so often and with so much zeal, 
that the end of the term found him acrain exhausted. But on 
the Sabbath after the exciting scenes of the xlnniversary, he 
preached three times; on the succeeding Monday returned to 
his old study at Andover, wrote two sermons in six days, 
preached on the next Sabbath two sermons at Salem, two in 
Boston a week afterward, and durincr the ensuincr month 
preached six times at Buffalo, N. Y., and once at Newark, 
N. J. He thus allowed himself but little repose from the 
commencement of his Senior year to the period of his ordina- 
tion. How little he enjoyed after that period, the sequel will 
show. 



HEALTH AND PHYSICAL REGIMEN. 

The life of Mr. Homer was as we have seen a happy one. 
it was exempt from many of the ills to which literary men are 
exposed. His memoir is not, like that of some others, a re- 
cord of aches and groans. He went straight forward in one 
uninterrupted course of improvement until a fortnight before 
his death. No pecuniary want, no alarming disease, no do- 
mestic affliction ever compelled him to leave his studies for a 
single month. He performed his intellectual labors with as 
much facility as diligence. Labor ipse voluptas was his mot- 
to and the secret of his success. Never more happy than 
with his books, and having never learned from experience the 
ills or the perils of sickness, he was unwilling to adopt any 
severe regimen of body. If confidence in the soundness of 



52 MEMOIR. 

one's constitution were a preventive of disease, his health 
would never have failed, for he used to say that he did not 
know enough about sickness to become a hypochondriac. He 
was abstemious in his diet, but he ate and drank what he 
chose. He was regular, as in everything else, so also in his 
exercise, but this exercise was regularly too little. In his 
most prudent days he was content with a morning and eve- 
ning walk. The dumb-bells were too monotonous and unin- 
tellectual for him, the athletic games were too puerile, the 
wood-saw and the axe were better fitted to increase his self- 
denial than his physical vigor ; of horsemanship he was utter- 
ly ignorant, and indeed there was nothing which could allure 
him from his books, to those exercises which would have 
strengthened his muscular system. Even in childhood, he 
was a more successful competitor for a prize in the school- 
room, than for victory on the play-ground. 

" Concourse and noise and toil he ever fled, 
Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray 
Of squabbling imps." 

His friends often remonstrated with him on the perils of his 
sedentary life. They endeavored to beguile him into a sys- 
tem of more vigorous exercise, as the friends of Richard 
Hooker would fain do with the judicious youth. ^^ Richard, 
I sent for you back," said the bishop of Salisbury, ^^ to lend 
you a horse which hath carried me many a mile, and, I thank 
God, with much ease ; and presently delivered into his hands 
a walking-staff with which he professed he had traveled 
through many parts of Germany." But a man must lose his 
health twice before he will learn to take care of it. He 
needs the ** regret of folly to make him wise," and the pains 
of disease to make him healthy. The subject of this memoir 
had an instinctive abhorrence of ultraism in religion, politics 
and literature ; and he had seen so much of ultraism in die- 
tetics, that he was repelled into an opposite fault. '^ As to 



MEMOIR. 53 

this grastric juice/' he said, '' I know nothing about it, and 
care less. Nobody should think of it but the doctor. x\ni- 
mal food I eat, because I have read in the books that man is 
not a carniverous animal. All kinds of bread are nutritious 
to me, except what is called dyspeptic bread, and I am never 
injured by my food, save when I eat for the purpose of pro- 
moting my health. I am told that I must not exert my facul- 
ties immediatelv after dinner, but I never knew the dav when 
I could not apply my mind in the afternoon as well as the 
morning. I am likewise told that the forenoon is better for 
study than the evening, but so far am I from finding any differ- 
ence between them, that although I am not a Hibernian, I 
find the evening the best part of the day.'' When he read the 
words of Richard Baxter, "I had in my family the benefit of 
a godly, understanding, faithful servant, near sixty years old, 
who eased me of all care, and laid out all my money for house- 
keeping, so that I never had one hour's trouble about it, nor 
ever took one day's account of her for fourteen years togeth- 
er," he would say, " that is the way to live ;" but it is not 
the way to live long. He who aims at an entire divorce from 
earthly cares that he may live a more intellectual life, should 
remember the paper kite's complaining of the string which 
held it to the earth and hindered its rise toward heaven. 

In some respects, however, the habits of Mr. Homer were 
favorable to his health. He had the art of relieving a strain- 
ed faculty by varying its exercise. It may be said of him, as 
of Robert Hall, '^ He found the advantages of passing from 
one subject to another at short intervals, generally of about 
two hours : thus castinor off the mental fiuicrue that one sub- 
ject had occasioned, by directing his attention to another, and 
thereby preserving the intellect in a state of elastic energy, 
from the beginning to the end of the time devoted daily to 
study." His innocence and cheerfulness of temper, his con- 
trol over all his passions, helped to preserve a continued elas- 
ticity in his well-nigh spiritual body. His exercise also, 

5* 



54 MEMOIR. 

though insufficient in degree, was favorable in kind. It was 
taken pleasantly, with a cheering companion, and in forget- 
fulness of his solitary labors. If three or four of his literary 
friends had gone with him to his parish, and walked with him 
there as they had done at Andover, he might have been in- 
debted to them for his life. Professor Tholuck of Halle, who 
is more familiar with biblical literature than with our man- 
ners and customs, recently assigned three reasons for not vis- 
iting the United States ; first, the rifeness of our mob spirit, 
which might, as he said, endanger his life ; secondly, the pre- 
valence of dyspepsia, which is somewhat peculiar to our stu- 
dents ; and thirdly, the want of promenades in our cities and 
villages. It was a promenade, which Mr. Homer needed at 
South Berwick, to allure him from his books, and fascinate 
his eye during the solitary ramble. The probability is, that 
had he always lived in the groves of the academy, and walk- 
ed by the gently flowing Ilissus, he had glided smoothly 
through a long and honorable life. But a man cannot always 
live in a sequestered bower, nor is that the scene for the per- 
fecting of the soul. It is well that he must wrestle with the 
perplexities of life. It is an old Chinese proverb, that a gem 
cannot be polished without friction, nor a man be improved 
without adversity. When the subject of this notice left his 
retreat at Andover, and hastened to his parochial toils, he ex- 
posed his constitution to a sudden shock. Without a habit 
of athletic labor, without interest in any employment which he 
could pursue in the open air, with a system exhausted by the 
efforts of his Senior year, he was ill fitted for the multiplied 
responsibilities which he chose to heap upon himself as a pas- 
tor. But the melancholy issue of his life is reserved for a fu- 
ture section. It is enough to say, 

" In his own mind our cause of mourning grew, 
The falchion's temper ate the scabbard through." 



MEMOIR. S5 



RESULTS OF MR. HOMER's SCHOLARSHIP. 

The fruits of mental application are not always tangible. 
They are seen in the character rather than the exploits of 
the mind. There is a mellowness of feeling, a refinement 
of sensibility, a generous and liberal spirit, which, more than 
any display of erudition, betoken the scholar. The subject 
of this memoir found the reward of his studies, not so much 
in the treasures of knowledo^e which he had amassed, as in 
the nice adjustment of his moral and mental power, the 
beautiful symmetry of his tastes and affections and faculties, 
the balancing, not indeed exact, but more accurate than is 
common, between one energy and another of his mind and his 
heart. One of his friends has aptly remarked, that "■ he dis- 
played the perfectness of growth, a kind of finish, even in his 
early youth ; the shrub possessing the same proportion of 
parts as the tree which it will become ere long." He had 
also that candor of mind which comes of an enlarged schol- 
arship. He could never have been a partizan in theology, 
as a young man often loves to be, and he would probably 
have done much good by his freedom from that narrow spirit 
which will clino^ to a sect or school, be it new or old. But 
the richest fruit of his scholarship was seen in his increasing 
capacity for improvement. The rapidity of his mental ad- 
vances seemed to be accelerating every day, until a half 
month before his death. He had laid a broad and deep foun- 
dation for an intellectual structure which would have risen 
fair and hio;h. 

Before he had closed his twenty-second year, he had accu- 
mulated much that would have quickened his mental growth 
for a long time to come. He had written numerous essays 
and orations, four quarto volumes of notes on his collegiate 
studies, eight volumes of abstracts and theses upon the topics 
of his Seminary course, had acquired six foreign languages, 



56 MEMOIR. 

some of which he had mastered, had studied with philosophi- 
cal acumen the writings of Hesiod, Herodotus, Longinus, 
Dionysius Halicarnasseus, Aeschylus and Euripides, and 
many of the old English prose authors ; had written an analy- 
sis of each book in the Iliad and of the Odyssey, with copi- 
ous annotations upon them, a critical disquisition also upon 
each of the minor poems and fragments ascribed to the father 
of poetry, an analysis of the orations of Demosthenes and 
Aeschines, with extensive criticisms upon each, and various 
translations from Latin and German commentators upon the 
sacred and classical writings. He had also collected mate- 
rials for at least three courses of lectures upon Homer and 
Demosthenes, and thought himself prepared to finish these 
courses with but little additional study, and within a short 
time. A synopsis of these lectures, with a catalogue of the 
authorities which he considered most important for reference, 
is published at the close of the present volume. 

MR. HOMER AS A FRIEND. 

It is not as a scholar that Mr. Homer is most pleasantly 
remembered, but as a friend. There was an affection ateness 
and a confiding frankness in his heart and manner, which 
wound others around him in a strange way. The beauties 
of his social nature still linger in the remembrance, like the 
spent breathings of an Aeolian harp, and we would fain muse 
upon them in silence, rather than describe them to a stran- 
ger. His companions never admired so much as they loved 
him, and they cling to his mem.ory with a tenacity that will 
never let it go. Their feelings toward him now that he has 
gone, are his highest praise. They prove that his character 
was a combination of such virtues as have won the lasting 
esteem of all who were admitted into the sanctuary of his 
heart, and that his influence will be the greater and the bet- 
ter as he was the more intimately known. It is said of an 



MEMOIR. 57 

eminent preacher, that all who never associated with him 
will be profited by his discourses. The usefulness of the 
sermons in the present volume will be increased by the fa- 
miliar knowledge of their author's character, It is some- 
what singular, that each of his friends supposed himself to be 
the peculiar object of Mr. Homer's regard, and each has said, 
without suspecting the same to have been said by another, 
'' I imagine that he disclosed his feelings to me as freely and 
confidentially, as to any one living." And even now, he 
seems, like a good portrait, to be fixing his eye distinctively 
and winningly upon every individual of his chosen brother- 
hood. 

He did not select his associates logically, by way of infer- 
ence from any sermon of Bishop Atterbury or Dr. Blair on 
the choice of companions, nor after a wise calculation of the 
benefit he might receive from them ; not because they were 
rich, nor because they were popular, nor because they were 
learned did he choose them, but because he was drawn to 
them by the mutual attractions of his own and their nature. 
He icas their friend before he judiciously resolved to be so. 
Neither did he confine his attachments to those who were 
cast in his own mould. He preferred circumstantial varie- 
ties amid general sympathies. Nor was he blind to the im- 
perfection of his associates : he saw it, and frankly reproved 
it, but with all their faults he loved them still. He some- 
times indulged them with his confidence merely because they 
wished it. He freely gave them his hand because they gave 
him their hearts. He acted on the principle which Dr. Pay- 
son commends, " The man that wants me is the man I want.'' 
He said of himself, '' Alas, I am susceptible, very suscepti- 
ble, too susceptible ;'' and if any one appealed to his gene- 
rosity, or his pity, or his christian benevolence, the appeal 
was not in vain. Hence he would sometimes contract an in- 
timacy less profitable to himself, than it was flattering to his 
comrade. He did not draw near to men in their prosperity, 



58 MEMOIR. 

and find himself otherwise employed in their adversity, nor 
when his friends were in pain did he study as calmly as if it 
were well with them. When the multitude frowned upon 
men whom he valued, he was not '^ ashamed of their chain." 
True worth, wherever he discerned it, he would commend, 
though it were hidden from the view of others, by some un- 
pleasant traits with which it was combined. 

It is soothing to recall the interest which was ever mani- 
fested by Mr. Homer in those of his fellow students w^ho 
needed his sympathies. He ministered to his sick classmates 
as one who suffered with them, and if any of his fellow trav- 
elers in the walks of literature were arrested by death, he 
missed them and spoke of them as his brethren. When 
young men are herded together in a public institution and 
secluded from the humanizing influences of the domestic 
circle, they often become obtuse in their sensibilities, and 
acquire a roughness and a coarseness which they mistake 
for the sign of manhood ; and when they bear one of their 
number to the grave, they sometimes aflect to be superior to 
such refinements of expression as are prompted by nature in 
its truth and healthfulness. In more instances than one, our 
departed friend perceived some heartless formality at the ob- 
sequies of a comrade, and with his peculiar delicacy strove 
to prevent its recurrence. He remembered as one of the 
most pleasing, though melancholy services of his life, how he 
once smoothed the pillow of a dying classmate,^ studied to 
ascertain the most exact proprieties of the funeral rites, and 
then attended the cold remains to the home of the bereaved 
parents, who resided a hundred miles from Amherst, and 
were ignorant of the death of their son until a half hour be- 
fore the corpse arrived. During this journey in an inclement 
season of the year, and over well nigh impassable roads, his 
sensibilities were so much excited, that for days after his re- 



' Mr. D. C. Rowell. 



MEMOIR. 59 

turn, his tones of voice were mournful, and he seemed to have 
lost a brother. 

While a student at Andover, he writes, Aug. 3, 1838, 
'^ Yesterday one of our number, Mr. Homer Taylor, died of 
typhus fever. He had been sick only a fortnight, and was 
not supposed to be dangerously ill until a day or two previous 
to his death. There were some peculiarly interesting circum- 
stances connected with his departure. His delirium, brought 
on by the violence of his disease, was almost wholly religious. 
The fact seemed to furnish as cheering evidence, as in such 
circumstances, could be afforded, of the holiness of his pre- 
vious life. It seemed as if the power that disordered his 
mind could not expel, but only confused, those pious contem- 
plations on which he loved to dwell." — '^ We buried him at 
evening. ^ Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not de- 
plore thee,' that beautiful hymn by Bishop Heber, was sung 
at the grave, and the solemn toll of the bell mingled most 
richly with the tones of the music. As we turned away from 
the grave-yard, the sinking sun repeated the lesson of admo- 
nition. It seemed like the voice of providence and the voice 
of nature speaking together." 

Eleven of Mr. Homer's collegiate classmates died before 
him, and not one of them dropped into his grave without call- 
ing forth some lamentation from the subject of this memoir. 
*^ One by one," he says, " we shall all drop away, till the last 
survivor looks back on the catalocrue of the dead. Who loill 
that last survivor he .^" '' O what are our prospects of worldly 
honor or happiness, compared with those that brighten the 
fading vision, and cheer the sinking spirit." 

It is not pretended that in Mr. Homer's intercourse with 
his friends he was one of those marvellous proper men, who 
never say anything which is not fit for the press, or write a 
private letter which is not prepared for the public eye. He 
did not talk like a book, nor compose his epistles as he com- 
posed notes on Aeschines. He agreed with Hazlitt, that '* to 



60 MEMOIR. 

expect an author to talk as he writes is ridiculous, and even 
if he did so, you would find fault with him as a pedant. We 
should read authors, and not converse with thern." Those 
who enjoyed his correspondence, w^hich was voluminous for 
one of his years, value his letters highly, but will not allow 
many of them to be published, they are so full of private al- 
lusions, of out-flowings from his own free nature. They are 
such as none but a friend could write to a friend, and the 
greater portion of them would lose their interest on the print- 
ed page, as the dew-drop parts with its brilliancy when ta- 
ken up by the chemist for an analysis. What we wish in a 
friendly correspondence is, that the letter be an emanation of 
the friend who writes it, that it be himself drawn out, not 
w^ith any desire of making a show, for this is not friendly, 
not with any very prominent desire of giving instruction, for 
this is the correspondence of a lecturer, or of a professor, or 
of a student, rather than of a man ; but with the desire of 
communino^ heart with heart, and transfusing; one's own fa- 
miliar thoughts or feelings into the soul of another who is ab- 
sent in body but present in sympathy. There are some who 
can engage in an agreeable kind of letter-writing which tends 
more immediately and avowedly to intellectual edification, 
but this is the colloquy of judgment with judgment, and has 
no peculiar relation to the communings of friend with friend. 
The subject of this memoir was a true and hearty friend, and 
all his scholarship never left him a dried up specimen of hu- 
manity. 

But it must not be imagined that his friendship was un- 
profitable either to himself or to others. The nature of it 
may be learned from the following description which he has 
given of one^ to whom he had been attached from early 
childhood, and with whom he had shared the most hidden 
joys of his life. ''I think," he says, '' that Mr. Brown was 
made for my friend, and that I was made for his: for his 

^ Mr. James G. Brown, formerly of Boston, Mass. 



MEMOIR. 61 

faults were those which I have not, and mine are those which 
he had not. There is a depression in my character where 
his had a protuberance, and there is a fulness with myself 
which corresponded with a deficiency in him, so that we met 
exactly and sympathized in all points." — " I may safely say," 
he writes again, ^' that of the whole circle of my acquaintance, 
althoucrh there was not one who would better adorn and en- 
liven by his social qualities a circle of pleasure, there was not 
one who possessed a deeper spirit of piety, or lived nearer to 
his Saviour. I am surrounded by mementos of his religious 
worth, always valued, but since his death most precious. His 
letters to me breathed the spirit of a man in whose soul reli- 
gion was the chief treasure. His voice, the tones of which 
were so familiar in this room, that I hear them this moment, 
and have heard them again and again since his departure, I 
remember chiefly for its eloquence in private prayer, and on 
the great subject which so often made his eye kindle and his 
heart overflow. I need not assure you how wide is the va- 
cancy which his loss has left in my heart. Differences of 
education and temperament and circumstances had only 
deepened our long attachment. There never has been a time 
since our first acquaintance, w^hen my interest in him has 
not led me to anticipate how severe would be the shock of his 
death. Even now, although the first anguish of grief is over, 
there are, and there must be for a long time to come, hours 
when its bitterness will recur afresh to the spirit. Yet God's 
holy will be done." 

MR. HOMER IN AFFLICTION. 

The last of the preceding paragraph suggests a theme for 
the present. Though the life of our friend was one of sun- 
shine, still there were a few dark clouds which cast their 
shadow over his feelings and prospects. It is well that he 
did not go through this vale of tears, without leaving some 
6 



62 MEMOIR. 

illustrations of his fitness to endure the ills, as well as enjoy 
the pleasures of the world. His manly grief, his calm sub- 
mission to the will of heaven, and the felicitous mode in which 
he ministered consolation to his afflicted friends, will be seen 
in the following extracts from his correspondence : 

" Andover, Theological Seminary, January 20, and February 27, 
1840. — The friend of my early days has been torn from me. You 
know how deep and long continued has been my attachment to Mr, 
James G. Brown. My love for him had been growing deeper and 
deeper every year, until it had sent its roots into the very depths of my 
soul. For the last few years he had been engaged in commerce at 
New Orleans, but wishing to gratify the desires, and appease the anx- 
ieties of the many who loved him, he had relinquished his business in 
that city, and was preparing for a permanent residence among his 
friends at the north. Just before embarking from New Orleans, he 
wrote as follows : ' 1 feel a delight in thinking there is One into whose 
hands I can commit my spirit, and who can command the winds and 
waves to bear me in safety to my destined port. But if the sea is to 
prove my grave and burial-place, I pray God that I may be fully pre- 
pared for whatever he is to call me to pass through. Infinite wis- 
dom is on the throne, and that which is done is sure to be right.' 

There were some peculiar reasons which made me desirous of see- 
ing him at this time. Never before had I anticipated such pleasure in 
meeting him, and never before had I looked for his return with such 
anxiety. For the first time in my life, I examined the ship news eve- 
ry day, from his embarkation at New Orleans to his arrival at New 
York. The recent disasters on the coast had made me apprehensive 
of peril for him on his homeward voyage, and I read each paper till I 
saw with joy the record of his safe return. But he had a perilous 
passage, and it is almost by a miracle that he escaped the disasters of 
the sea. Where we least looked for danger, where we all felt as se- 
cure as by our own firesides, at the threshold of his home, he met the 
death from which he had been saved in the hour of previous danger.^ 
On the afternoon of the thirteenth of January, he left New York for 
Boston in the steamer Lexington. Amid the flames which consumed 
that ill-fated boat, or amid the cold waters that swallowed up so many 
of our fellow citizens on that dark night, he perished. His friends 
feel assured that he died valiantly and sweetly, and resigned himself 

^ This incident probably suggested the illustration to be found on 
p. 214. 



MEMOIR. 63 

with christian composure to the will of his Lord. A few days after 
the conflagration, his trunk was found upon the beach. It had been 
exposed to piratical rapacity, but the rude hands of the robbers had 
left what was more precious than all which they took, his pocket Bi- 
ble and his Daily Food. It was soothing to find that he had recently 
marked for his perusal the twenty- third Psalm, which embraces the 
significant verses, ' The Lord is my shepherd,* and ' Though I walk 
throucfh the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil : for 
thou art with me ; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me." In his 
Daily Food he had turned the leaf at the following passages which 
had been selected for this last day of his life, and which, from his 
known habits, we believe he had been pondering during his fevr last 
hours : ' He that endureth to the end shall be saved," and ' Watch 
therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son 
of Man Cometh.' I have requested Mrs. Sigourney to commemorate 
these and other incidents in a poetical effusion. The following are 
her stanzas, and there is a charming simplicity and a quiet piety 
about them, which place them far above everything which has yet 
been written in reference to that sad disaster. 



On the death of James Griswold Browx, who perished on board the 
Lexington^ January 13, 1S4U. 

'■Watch^" — saith the Saviour, — ^ icatch,' 

Was this thy theme 
Of holv meditation, — thou whose heart 
Buoyant with youth and health and dreams of bliss, 
Pour"d forth at morn, sweet words of parting love .' 
Was this thy theme ? 

While each rejoicing thought 
Was radiant with bright images of home. 
The glowing fireside, the fraternal smile. 
The parents blessed welcome, — long revolved 
'Mid distant scenes, and now so near at hand, 
Almost within thy ofrasp, — when all conspir'd 
To lull the soul in Fond security, — 
Say, — didst thou icatch ? 

The sullen, wreck-strewn beach 
Makes answer that thou didst. 

Yea, — the deep sea 
So pitiless and stern, — who took the dead 
Unheard, — unanswering, — to her cells profound. 
Gave back a scroll from thee, more precious far 
Than ingots of pure gold. 



64 MEMOIR. 

So thou didst stand 
Firm in thy burnish'd armor, — undismayed^ 
A faithful sentinel. — The sudden call. 
So widely terrible, in words of flame, 
Found thee prepared. — Sharp path it was, but short, 
To the Chief Shepherd's everlasting fold. — 

Let sad affection to her wounded breast 
Press this rich balm, — and treasuring up the traits 
Of thy blest life, — grave on her signet ring, 
• Watch^—for ye know not when the Son of Man 
Cometh.^ 

And, therefore, unto all who tread 
Time's crumbling pathway, saith a voice from heaven 
' Watch and he ready ;' like that faithful one 
Who in the strength and beauty of his prime 
Sank 'neath the cold wave, to return no more. 

" January 21, 1840. — Of the burning of the Lexington I heard first 
at Andover on Thursday evening. The dreadful suspicion that my 
friend was not safe, at once flashed upon my mind, but I tried to at- 
tribute my fears to my own feverish and anxious spirit. Circumstances 
came to my memory on cooler reflection which quite removed my 
anxieties, and I was hardly prepared on Friday evening for the recep- 
tion of the death's list, with the name of my friend too plainly and 
unequivocally enrolled in it. For a time it seemed too terrible to be 
believed. What he was to me, the more than fraternal affection that 
subsisted between us, you well know. I felt for hours a sensation of 
loneliness in the room where 1 had so often welcomed him, and where 
we had taken sweet counsel together. Buried in the memory of his 
friendship I scarcely left my study for two days.^ When I came out, 
by the grace of God, it was with refreshment that so much of sacred 
interest mingled with my reminiscences. I caught the well-remem- 
bered tones of his voice, — but they were in prayer for you and for me, 
and for all of us. I traced the lines of his writing, — they breathed a 

^ "I was particularly struck," writes one of Mr. Homer's friends, 
" at the time of this sudden bereavement with the quiet and calm re- 
signation with which, after a few hours of deep distress, he yielded to 
the blow. 1 read him, on the Sabbath evening after the intelligence 
v/as received, the beautiful sermon of Tholuck, entitled, ' The Testi- 
mony of our Adoption by God the Surest Pledge of Eternal Life.' I 
could not but look with admiration upon his placid countenance as he 
seemed to drink in the words of hope and of peace. I have since 
thought, it seems as if the thought occurred to me then, that he bore 
the pain almost too nobly ; we might have known that he was almost 
prepared for heaven." 



MEMOIR. 65 

christian comfort and consolation to us in former aiEictions, when he 
too was here to mourn. Our strong staff was indeed broken, and our 
beautiful rod ; in the flush of manly beauty and promise, the joy of our 
hearts was torn from us. But he who administers the chastisement 
brings with it a sure remedy in the reflection that the home which 
our departed one looked for in his earthly pilgrimage, he has found at 
the right hand of Jesus. What are these repeated bereavements which 
rend our souls with anguish but the joyous reunion of our former 
friends in purer scenes, — and what shall they be to us, but a discipline 
to ripen us also to follow their footsteps and participate in their re- 
ward ? I do not think that one could leave the world with a brighter 
or sweeter memento, with a more beautiful encouragement to his 
mourning friends than Mr. Brown left behind him. In a letter writ- 
ten a few moments before he went on board the Lexington, he says, 
' I leave to-night trusting to the watchful care of my Covenant Shep- 
herd.' Who would wish for a more delightful resting-place than that 
which this Guardian Friend provides for his chosen .'' It is a pleas- 
ant home which he chooses for his flock. And when the chief 
Shepherd shall appear, who can doubt that our lost ones shall appear 
with him in glory." 

" February 8, 1840. — You seem to me to dwell too much upon the 
aggravating circumstances of our late affliction. This is natural, but 
unnecessary, and probably incorrect. At first, my own soul was 
haunted by the terrors of that fearful night, and much of the misera- 
ble rhetoric that has appeared in public print upon the subject, has 
been fitted only to inflame the imagination, and in all probability to 
carry it beyond the reality. After a cooler examination, I have con- 
cluded that the physical suffering of the occasion was probably far less 
than is generally supposed. The intense and thrilling excitement of 
the scene to many minds would furnish occupation, without giving 
them an opportunity to brood over their own personal distresses. The 
human soul is furnished by its Creator with powers of self-support, to 
be developed in great exigencies, which are almost miraculous. Where 
was there an exigency so great as that, — and where was the charac- 
ter containing in itself more sources of relief and even happiness, than 
that of our friend who is gone ? I think it not impossible that liis 
constitutional ardor may have made him one of the first who perislicd. 
If so, his struggles in the benumbing waters could have been but mo- 
mentary, and his death may have been as serene as it was quick. We 
should have perhaps preferred to stand by his bedside and watch liis 

6* 



66 MEMOIR. 

lingering agonies ; but for him, it was no doubt physically pleasanter 
to sink down exhausted and senseless into his ocean-bed. It was 
more like a quiet slumber than we are apt to imagine. There is 
another thought which has given me great consolation, even in the 
more fearful alternative that he may have continued among the last. 
Our dear friend was prepared to die ; probably, better prepared than 
many of us who survive. I think of him in that sweet security which 
the presence of Jesus can impart, resigning himself to his fate peaceful- 
ly and calmly. There is a deep meaning in those passages of scripture 
which were the theme of his last perusal and meditation. There is 
prophetic beauty in the last words which we heard from him. And 
now, they are as a voice from heaven assuring us that no outward 
terrors can disturb the serenity of God's chosen. I think of him as 
cheering the comfortless in their gloom. With what ardor may not 
his zeal have been animated. With what efficiency and success may 
he not have prosecuted on the burning deck, the mission he was not 
faithless to in the common walks of life. And perhaps, many poor 
trembling spirits may have been guided by his example and direction 
to the fold of his Shepherd in heaven. There is a power with which 
his death speaks to you and to me which I cannot believe we shall be 
indifferent to. In those last moments, his mental eye no doubt gath- 
ered in the sphere of its vision the many who loved him and would 
mourn his less. You and I, no doubt, were there, to receive the bless- 
ing and the prayer of the dying. Shall not that blessing be upon us 
through life ? Shall not those prayers be answered in our sanctifica- 
tion ? Shall not our ' daily food ' be the admonition, <• watch.' When 
I w^as called about eight months ago, to mourn over the untimely 
death of one whom w^e loved, I wrote to you not to be fearful, for God 
would take care of me. I meant, dim-sighted as I was, that it could 
not be that God would afflict us again. I felt that to the survivors 
life was secure, for God does not often prepare his chastisements in 
quick succession. But now, when I write to you that God will take 
care of us, I mean for life or for death. He knows what is best. 
Would God our bleeding hearts might be spared another shock, yet 
his will be done. Safe are we all, be we frail or be we vigorous, safe 
are we all in our Shepherd's care and there only. I leave you with 
this kind protector, knowing that he never forsakes his chosen." 

At subsequent dates he says, *' In your affliction, keep up a good 
heart, let me entreat you. It makes me sad to see that you speak sor- 
rowfully of life. Not that I blame you, but it is so much better to be 



MEMOIR. 67 

Strong. Read over and over again that ennobling Psalm of Life by 
Professor Longfellow. Look not mournfully on the past. Trust in 
Jesus and he will support you, and for you and me and all of us will 
bring liofht out of our sorrow. And for the dead, rest to their sweet 
spirits, a rest that is full of life and love. 

'We know, we know that their land is bright, 
And we know that they love there still.' 

Surely they think of and visit us, and it is not idolatrous to pray that 
they always may. God-sent messengers are they, angels of mercy 
watching by our bed-side and hovering about our walk. O let us be 
holy and happy, surrounded as we are by such a cloud of witnesses, 
— with God and Christ and the holy ones whom we used to know 
and love all gathering about our pathway, and blessing us with a per- 
petual presence. Of those in heaven, something tells me that 

'they love there still.' I do not know that I can reason it out, but it 

is a demand of my soul that it must be, and I know that it is so. 

Yes the departed are still here in the sweet influence of their undying 
memory, and the consciousness of their ever-present though invisible 
sympathy and affection. Ever they hover about our pathway. Ever 
we hear a voice saying to us, Be of good cheer ! ' The flowers of 
our fair garland are torn from us here, only that they may bloom yon- 
der, lovelier and forever.' In the light which thus seems to shine 

forth from my dark trial, 1 can adopt the language of Jeremy Taylor as 
my own. ' For myself, I bless God I have observed and felt so much 
mercy in this angry dispensation, that I am almost transported, I am 
sure, highly pleased, with thinking how infinitely sweet his mercies 

are when his judgments are so gracious.' Even in this frown of 

God's providence, the eye of faith beholds the smile of his love. He 
has opened to us a clear and delightful pathway to the eternal world. 
Mild voices are speaking to us, soft hands are beckoning to us to fol- 
low the pious dead and receive their reward. I tliink I can hear them 
soothing our sorrow with the sweet assurance that the afiiictions of 
life, the terrors of death are not worthy to be compared with their own 

far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. Yesterday was 

the Sabbath, and while we were engaged in the imperfect worship of 
earth, I often thought of my friend who was then employed in nobler 
and purer services. The recollection of the many precious Sabbaths 
we had passed together in this room came home to me. There was 
one, the last he spent with me here, peculiarly fresh in its impression, 
and delightfully soothing to my sorrow. That Sabbath, we partook to- 



68 MEMOIR. 

getlier of the sacramental feast. We talked of the destiny of the soul, 
and the bliss of heaven. We remembered at our social altar the then 
scattered members of his family, never forgotten by him in his devo- 
tions. One of that family, the sister whom we were so soon to mourn, 
was that day in eternity, though we knew not of it. Much of our 
conversation and employment, as I afterward thought, was beautiful- 
ly prophetic of what I dare not call, our loss, but of the new accession 
to the society of heaven. And now, there seems to have been a deep- 
er, a still more significant prediction, which no doubt was verified 
when the blessed spirit of the first-called welcomed this brother to her 
happy home." 



On the afternoon of the Sabbath which the preceding let- 
ter refers to, the last Sabbath in June, 1839, Mr. Homer read 
in company with Mr. Brown, the funeral sermon of Jeremy 
Taylor on the Countess of Carberry. He paused often as he 
was reading, and spoke of the resemblance between the vir- 
tues of the Countess as they are described in the sermon, and 
the characteristics of the lady whom he alludes to in the last 
of the passages quoted above, and who as he afterwards learn- 
ed was borne to her grave at the very hour of his perusing 
that sermon. By a sudden casualty she had been torn from 
her family and children at Johnstown, N. Y., '^ and I," said 
Mr. Homer, " without suspecting the appropriateness of my 
employment was celebrating her obsequies, while the proces- 
sion were slowly moving to her tomb, and I knew it not." A 
few days after he heard of this bereavement, he wrote the fol- 
lowing letter to his friend Mr. Brown : 



" July 3, 1839. — How little we thought in the pleasure of our mutual 
welcome on the noon of Saturday that one so near to us was just re- 
ceiving a welcome to a sphere of which ear hath not heard nor heart 
conceived. How little we thought as we were reading over that fu- 
neral discourse of Jeremy Taylor, that we were rehearsing the praises 
of a kindred spirit who had just left our own circle. When we talk- 
ed on Sabbath morning of the future blessedness of the righteous, she 
was, no doubt, richly participating in it ; and while we were celebra- 



MEMOIR. 69 

ting in our feeble way the triumphs of Christ's love at his table, she, 
no doubt was singing the new song, and enjoying a more intimate and 
blissful communion. O may we meet her there I Which of us can 
any longer think of loving for this life alone, when we hear her mild 
sweet voice warning us to love for heaven, — to cherish all our earthly 
affections in such a way that they can be perpetuated beyond the 
orrave."' 



On several occasions when the subject of this memoir was 
bereaved of a friend, he gave expression to his feelings in verse. 
The following lines he wrote soon after the sudden bereave* 
ment to which the last of the foregoing letters has reference : 

" I hear thy voice, fond sleeper, now, 

Not as it rose in gladsome hour. 
When joy illumed thy radiant brow. 

And life bloomed fair with many a flower, 
But now with solemn tones and still 

That wake each chord with liner thrill. 

I hear thy voice in many a scene 

Where thou in buoyant hope didst roam, 

Not such as when thyself hast been 
The cherished idol of thy home : 

But now in accents richly deep 

From the lovv' grave where thou dost sleep. 

I hear thy voice in melting song, 

Not as its cadence charmed the ear 
Amid the gay and happy throng 

Who gathered round thy beauty here. 
A spirit's joy, a spirit's lyre 

Thy strains of melody inspire. 

I hear thy voice in fondness call. 

Not as it gave its witching tone 
To sway with soft and gentle thrall, 

And soothe the sorrows of thine own. 
But quivering now with purer love 

For us below, for those above. 



70 MEMOIR. 

I hear thy voice ! It cometh oft 

In sorrow's gush and memory's swell, 

When sigh w^e for its welcome soft 
Or whisper of its sad farewell. 

It comes with happy tone and blest 
And bids us to thine own sweet rest." 



MR. HOMER S RELIGIOUS CHARACTER. 

The depths of the sorrow which has been indicated in the 
foreoroina letters were disclosed to but few of Mr. Homer's 
friends. His most sacred feelings he was not apt to reveal. 
Hence his religious character was understood only by those 
who were intimate with him. He kept no daily record of 
his emotions ; he was afraid that while writing his diary, he 
should often ^' turn an eye to the window," and the private 
journal would, after all, be prepared for public inspection. 
What will men think of this, if it should ever be exposed ? 
is a question that slyly creeps into the mind of even a secret 
diarist. He feared the influence of a religious record upon 
his own heart. If a man be moved by strong impulses of 
piety, while he is making the record, he will use glowing lan- 
guage, and this, meeting his eye a month afterward, will give 
him a higher notion of his goodness than he can entertain 
truly or safely. If he be moved by no such impulses, he will 
express deep lamentation over his spiritual sloth, and when 
he reviews the mourninor record, he will form too exalted an 
opinion of the humility that prompted it. If he have de- 
frauded his neighbor in a bargain, he will not be so willing 
to write a plain narrative of the fraud, as to pour forth his 
sorrow for a want of trust in divine providence ; and the 
grief expressed for this comparatively respectable failing will 
remind him, years afterward, of his delicate moral sensibility, 
rather than of his flagrant crime. '' Last week," said Mr. 
Homer," I derived great pleasure from reading the religious 
diary of . It is rich, rich, in religious experience. He 



MEMOIR. 71 

seems to have elaborated his love to Christ until it appears to 
be almost seraphic. But alas ! I shall never read that diary 
again, for I perceive that a year or two before his death he 
re-wrote it. What must a man's expectation be, in penning 
his religious journal the second time ?" 

It is to be regretted, however, that these injurious tenden- 
cies of keeping a private record assumed so great a promi- 
nence in Mr. Homer's mind. The positive good resulting 
from this practice would, in his own case, have overbalanced 
the evil. But his most sacred feelings he shrunk from dis- 
closing, even to himself He was not communicative on all 
other themes, and silent on his own christian experience, but 
his reserve on this theme was precisely what we should ex- 
pect from his native delicacy. Indeed his whole religious 
character was in keeping with himself He was not a doc- 
trine in theology, neither was he sanctification, but he was 
Mr. Homer sanctified in part. He looked and spoke natu- 
rally when religion was the theme of discourse, and all his 
modes of manifestincr religious feelinor were such as accord- 
ed with his temperament and tastes. The phrase, natural- 
ness of piety, is an ambiguous one, but if it were not it would 
well designate his character. The perfection of goodness is 
to make a right use of the nature which God has given us. 
As it is one of the highest attainments to be natural in any- 
thing, so it is the last attainment of a good man, to regain en- 
tirely the nature that was lost in the fall. To shun artificial 
developments and mere conventional forms, and to let one's 
free and full heart flow out in the channel of true benevo- 
lence is a great thing ; far greater than to catch a certain 
good tone, and to be familiar with a round of phrases that 
may happen to form the Shibboleth of a community. 

Like himself his piety was retiring. Others were more 
regular than he at the jniblic meeting for prayer ; but there 
has seldom been found a Christian more punctilious in ob- 
serving his hours of secret devotion. ^^ After I had retired 



72 MEMOIR. 

at night, I always heard his voice in earnest prayer/' is the 
testimony of one who lived in the room contiguous to his at 
Amherst. The same witness is borne by one at Andover. 
That he allowed his secret prayers to be audible is indeed 
somewhat of an anomaly in his religious life, for he was fond 
of shunning the least appearance of parade, and if any one 
thinor more than another were his abhorrence, it was Phari- 
saism. If the sound of his piety did not go forth from the 
crowded hall so loudly as that of others, he was faithful to the 
hour of religious concert with a few absent friends. Like 
himself too, his piety was kind, condescending and conside- 
rate. He was not a noisy member of a Peace Society, nor 
clamorous for Moral Reform, but he cultivated the amiable 
instincts of his nature, and delighted in diffusing happiness 
among those around him. His motto was, '' Caritate et be- 
nevolentia sublata, omnis est e vita sublata jucunditas." He 
did not strive nor cry, nor was his voice heard in the street. 
He did not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking 
flax. He was ever marked for his kindness to those who 
were feeble in the christian faith. ^' He plied them with the 
arts of a sacred courtship," and allured them to higher attain- 
ments in the spiritual life, and while he reproved them they 
loved him. He delighted in taking up what others had 
thrown away, and doing what he could for the rescue of one 
that was given over to uncovenanted mercies. Often was he 
asked by one of his friends. What protege have you now in 
your train ? It was pleasing to see the readiness with which 
his spirit, by an instinct, sought out the persecuted, the 
down-trodden, — how quick he was to defend from all injus- 
tice the weaker of two opponents, and if the question be- 
tween the two were exactly balanced, he was only to learn 
which was the stronger ere his sympathies clustered around 
the feebler. From the earliest days of his religious life until 
the last, he felt a peculiar sympathy for those who had not 
the cheering influences of the right faith. He exerted an in- 



MEMOIR. 73^ 

fluence over them which none of his brethren could attain. 
He would labor to insinuate the truth into their minds and 
charm away their prejudices. He would concede to them 
whatever he might with an approving conscience, admit the 
force of their objections, if there were force in them, and. 
confess that he had felt the same, and tell how he was rescu- 
ed from their power. Then he would intrench himself upon 
the strong grounds of his faith, defend its essential features 
with a determined zeal, preserve his kindness and equanimi- 
ty amid somewhat acrimonious assaults, and in some pleas- 
ing instances he has convinced the gainsayer and relieved 
the doubter. Not that he always would directly introduce 
the subject of difference, but like Herbert's country parson, 
with his great object ** he mingled other discourses for con- 
versation's sake, and to make his higher purposes slip the 
more easily." He never meant to be rash in his assaults up- 
on the faith of his opponents, but he premeditated both the 
subjects and the style of his discourse with them, and laid 
his plans for skilfully alluring them to a religious life. He 
once walked his room until eleven o'clock at night, for the 
purpose of devising the best scheme for reaching the con- 
science of one whom he pitied, but he could devise no safe 
expedient, and therefore did nothing. 

In some respects it would have been wiser for himself to 
associate more than he did with those who were confirmed 
and mature in the christian life ; but while there were minds 
which could be led by him through a maze of scepticism, and 
which needed the peculiar attractions of his fellowship, he 
chose to forego his individual benefit. In a letter to one who 
had but recently entered upon a religious course, he says, 
" I am rejoiced that you do not think of losing your interest 
in any of your old companions, although they may not sym- 
pathize fully with the change in your views and feelings. 
You may do them much good. I know that the intellectual 
arrogance of a vain philosophy furnishes a most unprofitable 

7 



74 MEMOIR. 

field for labor, but even that cannot be proof against the power 
of a holy life, certainly not against the working of the Spirit 
for which we may always pray. Nor are we left to our reli- 
gion as if it could find no response in the intellect as well as 
the heart. Let us sometimes meet the wisdom of this world 
upon its own ground. Surely the philosophy of a mind like 
Paul's is not to be contemned, anv more than his sacred iooric 
can be grappled with and overthrown. With such a one we 
might be proud to sit down and weep over sin, to hang our 
hopes on the foolishness of the cross, to content ourselves 
with the simple revelation of mysteries at which we could but 
cry out, ^ O the depth I' Chiefly may vre be proud to sit 
down like children at the feet of him who spake as never man 
spake. Human philosophy never provided such an instruc- 
ter, such a Saviour. It is a gift to the world which meets 
the want of every mind. And he alone is blessed who hears 
in the words, ' Come unto me,' an invitation to his own world- 
worn and unsatisfied nature, and is determined to make the 
noble sentiment of Chrysostom his own, 'When we rise, the 
cross — when we lie down, the cross — in all places and at all 
times, the cross, shining more glorious than the sun.' " 

There was a kind of generosity and healthiness in Mr. Ho- 
mer's religious character. His views of truth were rational, 
and he learned religious lessons from all that he read or heard. 
*' Some of my brethren,'' he writes, '' have been a little scan- 
dalized at the want of spirituality in the exercises which I 
have been describing to you. But on my mind they have a 
decidedly religious influence. They send me to my knees, 
that I may ask God for his blessing upon the good counsels 
which are given us, and my own feeble endeavors to live up 
to them. Thev crive me hicrher views of mv ^reat work, of 
my solemn calling; and if this be less religious than such a 
discourse as leaves us wearv and dissatisfied, then relicrion is 
somethincr different from an active consecration of the soul to 
God." His healthful interest in all that is good and graceful, 



MEMOIR. 75 

his sympathy with natural virtue even where but little of it 
was to be found, and his kindliness of feelincr toward all who 
belonged to his race, and especially toward those whose char- 
acter was unfortunately misunderstood, made him appear 
more liberal and catholic than some would think either judi- 
cious or safe. His error would always be on the side of 
leniency rather than of bigotry. It was not his highest aim 
to become popular in the church, but to set an example of 
enlarged, comprehensive piety, and to secure the favor of 
God rather than the praise of even good men. "I tremble,^' 
he said, *' for the Christian who has a high repute in the world 
for his spiritual attainments. I pray God that he may be as 
humble as he is famous. It is cruel for our religious reviews 
to speak of living authors as eminent for piety. These au- 
thors v.ill read the commendation, and if they believe the half 
of what is written, thev will think more hiahlv of themselves 
than they ought to think." 

Besides his quickness of sympathy with all who were in 
need of moral support, his readiness to be touched with the 
feeling of their infirmities, and his affable companionship 
even with such as preferred to keep aloof from religious so- 
ciety, the more obvious peculiarities of his religious action 
were his wisdom in adopting fit means for fit ends, and his 
freedom from all hackneyed and cant phraseology. He was 
not so fond of exhorting men " to embrace the Saviour," as 
to rely for salvation on the atonement ; nor did he inquire so 
often " what were their frames of mind," or " how they had 
enjoyed a particular season," as he was of learning their 
spiritual state in easy and incidental converse. The follow- 
ing is one among many specimens of his style in exhorting a 
sinner to repentance. The reader will perceive how sedu- 
lous he was to avoid the phrases which so often annoy the 
person whom they are designed to benefit, hardening the 
heart because they disgust the taste. 



76 MEMOIR. 

" Andover, March 8, 1840.— It gives me great pleasure to hear from 
your letter, that some of your own friends are beginning to walk in 
the good way. I learn from various sources that the'Spirit of God is 
now very near to the families and churches of Boston, and I have not 
ceased to pray that you may not let this golden opportunity pass un- 
improved. Something has whispered to me that the harvest season 
of your soul is at hand. If you suffer it to leave you before your peace 
is made with God, who can predict that there will ever be another 
period when the Spirit and the bride will urge their invitation so 
persuasively as they do novr ? And if you resist these influences, 
what can be expected for the lesser influences which may appeal to 
you in future, when your heart may be more hardened than it is at 
present. It made me glad that you could write me of being * at times 
anxious for the salvation of j^our soul.' But I rejoice with trembling, 
for I know that Christ requires something more than occasional anx- 
iety. He demands that you give yourself no rest till you have yield- 
ed to his claim. He asks something more than anxiety, — he asks a 
full surrender of your powers and affections to his service. He con- 
templates with no satisfaction the heart that has been awakened by 
his voice only to disobey it. Could there be a more reasonable de- 
mand than his, — that you this instant fix your heart on the love that 
bled and died for you, and love it ; that without a momenfs delay you 
resolve to keep his commands, and keep them, no longer impelled by 
desires for your own gratification, but sweetly inchned to do his will, 
through life and forever. Let me entreat you not to rest secure that 
you are on the way to repentance, for repentance is a duty that must 
be performed now, without delay. Let me urge you not to deceive 
yourself by imagining some more convenient season, though not far 
off, when you can begin to live for God. .Xoic is the only sure mo- 
ment held out in the word of God, when the soul's salvation may be 
secured. Will you not then repair immediately to that Saviour who 
is waiting to receive each lost and sinful child for whom he poured 
out his precious blood. Choose him for your guide and portion. Give 
him the heart you are now wasting on the world. For every earthly 
sacrifice he will restore you an hundred fold, in the green pastures 
through which he leads his chosen on earth, and by the river of God 
in heaven." 

It is as forming a new variety among the plants that our 
heavenly Father hath planted, that the religious life of Mr. 
Homer elicits the interest of his friends. Each diflfering 



\ MEMOIR. 77 

beauty in the garden of the Lord conduces to that impression 
of completeness which ought to be made by the whole scene. 
The elements of a religious character are combined in vari- 
ous proportions in different individuals. Each of these com- 
binations has its excellences ; no one of them is a standard 
for exclusive imitation. They depend on varieties of tem- 
perament and of early training, and are all deficient w^hen 
compared with the perfect model that shines forth in the gos- 
pel. An error of many Christians is, that they attach an au- 
thority to the example of some imperfect man, and debar from 
their fellowship all who do not follow that example. One 
class of religious developments they commend too exclusive- 
ly, and are intolerant of another class which are useful in 
their own sphere, but are not in sympathy with the provincial 
taste. Our duty is to reverence the graces of the Spirit 
whatsoever they be, and to aim after that union of all the vir- 
tues which w^e discover in our great Exemplar. 

The subject of this memoir had not the deep self-abhor- 
rence of him who cried out in view of his sins, *^ Infinite up- 
on infinite — infinite upon infinite ;" nor had he the sombre 
and gloomy piety which made him walk over the ground like 
David Brainerd, fearing that the earth was just ready to open 
itself and swallow him up ; nor had he the bruised and mor- 
bid spirit of Cowper, nor the imposing and awe-inspiring vir- 
tues of Payson, nor the spirited and impetuous piety of Bax- 
ter, pressed on by an irritated nerve, and looking for no peace 
till he reached the Saint's Everlasting Rest. There was the 
calm and philosophical devotion of Bishop Butler, — there 
was the mild and equable and philanthropic temper of Blair 
and of Tillotson ; but it was neither of these that Mr. Homer 
held up as his exclusive model. He had not attained a per- 
fect symmetry of christian virtue, but he was aiming after it, 
and striving to blend the graces of the gospel into one lumi- 
nous yet mild, rich yet simple expression. 
7* 



78 MEMOIR. 



MR. homer's FACETIOUSNESS. 



It is said by some uninspired men, that our Saviour while 
on earth never laughed. This assertion, which is probably 
false, would prove nothing if it were true. He who left the 
abodes of eternal blessedness and was God manifest in the 
flesh, he who bore a world's redemption upon his heart, who 
came that he might suffer, and suffered that we might be heal- 
ed, who died to bear our sins, and in his death was forsaken 
even by his Father, such a being might well do many things 
which we may not do, and abstain from much that we may 
practise. We, who are enjoying the fruit of his labors, and 
are living on the merits of his death, need not be always som- 
bre and exceeding sorrowful. 

It is also said that stern realities are before us, sickness, 
bereavement, death ; and in view of the evils to which we are 
hastening, we should repress our sportive tendencies and 
prepare for the dark hour. It is indeed good to think of our 
dying scenes, to think of them often, so often that we may 
rise above the fear of death, and become conquerors through 
him that loved us. But are these to be our only thoughts ? 
Is there to be no variety of christian feeling ? Shall we al- 
ways speak on the minor key ? Are there not green spots on 
the earth, as well as arid wastes ? Are there not bright sea- 
sons in life, and joyous meetings and thrilling prospects, and 
is not religion too often confounded with gloom and sadness ? 

The subject of this memoir was a serious and thoughtful 
man, but was religiously careful to prevent his seriousness 
from being degraded into dulness. He was earnest and sol- 
emn ; but '' as the two greatest men and gravest divines of 
their time, Gregory Nazianzen and Basil, could entertain one 
another with facetious epistles," so in the present instance all 
needful care was taken to prevent solenmity from degenera- 
ting into sanctimony. He looked upon sanctimony as a sole- 



MEMOIR. 79 

cism in the expression of good feeling, as a blunder of sober- 
ness. It is not a rational interest in grave and momentous 
concerns, but a stiff and monotonous gravity where there is 
no need of it. It consists in grieving at a time when joy 
would be more appropriate, in wearing a sad countenance 
where God and nature call for smiles, and speaking in semi- 
tones where all demureness and whining are like snow in mid- 
summer. It is sometimes a morbid dissatisfaction with the 
world, and is mistaken for a rational longing after heaven. 
It is sometimes a sullen or a misanthropic temper, and is hon- 
ored with the title of hatred to the sins of men. It is a want 
of religious health, and may now and then be cured by an in- 
nocent joyousness of temper as by a medicine. It is a mor- 
tifying fact, we are men and not spirits. The truth cannot 
be concealed, we are made of the dust of the earth, and in 
the strange commingling of mind witli matter, there is a law 
of contraries which is as fixed as any other law. If we would 
be intellectual we must eat ; if we would be wakeful, we must 
sleep ; if we would toil hard and long, we must rest betimes ; 
and if we would be truly sober, sober as a man is and not as 
an automaton, we must not dry up the vein of humor, which 
is one of the veins that help to fill out the human system. 

The proper recrulation of a humorous fancy was often the 
subject of Mr. Homer's thoughts. Among the gifts with 
which he had been richly endued by him who creates nothing 
in vain, was a quick sense of the ludicrous ; and this he deem- 
ed it wiser to control than to extirpate. He regarded it as a 
part of his constitution and as a fit antagonist to another part, 
a tendency to a morbid gloom. He resisted this tendency 
like a wise and brave man, so that some of his intimate com- 
panions were never aware of his possessing it. As he admired 
that great law of the universe according to which a single 
energy is modified by its opposite, so in his own constitution 
he set one thing over against another, and by his buoyant sal- 
lies of wit he diverted his mind, in a good degree, from prey- 



80 MEMOIR. 

ing upon itself. He thus preserved for so long a time and 
amid wasting toils his uninterrupted health. It was not so 
easy for him to declare war against a comic humor, as it is for 
those who are never assailed by such an enemy. He had no 
very profound reverence for the self-denial of those men who 
have resolved to banish every witticism from their thoughts, 
if perchance one should ever be suggested to them. It is not 
difficult for a man to be grave who can never be otherwise. 
On the other hand, they who are fond of sparkling humor 
are on that account disposed to commend it. Men love to 
praise themselves by extolling such faculties as they possess, 
and undervaluing such as are denied to them. One thing is 
certain, we should never indulge the exhilarating passions 
while we think them wrong or injurious. Another thing is 
equally certain, we should not imagine them to be wrong or 
injurious, unless they be so. For although innocent pleasures 
invigorate the moral sense while they are viewed as innocent, 
they produce an opposite effect when their character is mis- 
understood. They become guilty by being thought so. 

The person who never smiles will do a thousand worse 
things from w^hich a smile would have saved him. An occa- 
sional liberty of this sort is one of the safety valves of the mor- 
al constitution. " Men only become friends," says Dr. John- 
son, ^' by community of pleasures. He who cannot be soften- 
ed into gayety, cannot easily be melted into kindness. Upon 
this principle one of Shakspeare's personages despairs of gain- 
ing the love of Prince John of Lancaster, for ^ he could not 
make him laugh.' " Differing temperaments, it is true, must 
be governed by different laws, but for every man it is the one 
great law, that he should exercise all the sensibilities which 
God has given him, and in the proportion which their relative 
value prescribes ; that he should pass his best hours in labor 
for the good of others, and in his remaining hours should re- 
fresh himself for his returning toils. 

There was something intangible and evanescent in the 



MEMOm. 81 

sportiveness of Mr. Homer. It was so refined as to elude 
the perception of some. He produced an effect when no 
one could tell how or why. He was resorted to, as a kind of 
physician, by the intimate friend who had wearied himself in 
intense thought and had begun to suffer the corroding of 
over-strained faculties. No one but Dr. Barrow can describe 
his facetiousness, and the '* unfair preacher" would say, that 
*' it consisted sometimes in pat allusion to a known story, or 
in seasonable application of a trivial saying: sometimes it 
lurked imder an odd similitude, or was lodged in a sly ques- 
tion, in a smart answer, in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd imi- 
tation, in cunningly diverting or cleverly retorting an objection. 
Sometimes it was couched in a bold scheme of speech, in a 
tart irony, in a lusty hyperbole, in a startling metaphor, in a 
plausible reconciling of contradictions, in acute nonsense, or 
in sarcastical twitches that are needful to pierce the thick 
skins of men. Sometimes it arose only from a lucky hitting 
upon what is strange, sometimes from a crafty wresting of 
obvious matter to the purpose ; often it consisted in one knows 
not what, and sprang up one can hardly tell how. It was, in 
short, a manner of speaking out of che simple and plain way, 
which by a pretty surprising strangeness in conceit or ex- 
pression did affect and amuse the fancy, stirring in it some 
wonder and breeding some delight thereto, gratifying curiosity 
with its rareness, diverting the mind from its road of tiresome 
thoughts, and seasoning matters otherwise distasteful or in- 
sipid with an unusual and thence grateful tang.' 

The facetiousness of Mr. Homer was less noticeable in 
earlier than in later life. As his application to study became 
the more intense, he was the more inclined to retresh his ex- 
hausted spirit in the exhilarations of humor. He multiplied 
his reliefs when he increased his tasks. As the reservoir deep- 
ened and widened the jet played quicker and higher. When 
he commenced his parochial labor, he deemed it advisable to 
check somewhat the out-flowincrs of his amusincr fancv, but 



82 MEMOIR. 

he soon found that he needed the relaxation which he had 
abandoned ; and that, whatever others might do, he could not 
preserve his elasticity in toil without the aid of that nimble 
faculty, which was designed to refresh a wearied spirit by its 
grotesque and diverting images. He was as conscientious in 
his indulorence as he was in his labor, for he knew like Her- 
bert's country parson, that "■' nature will not bear everlasting 
droopings, and that pleasantness of disposition is a great key 
to do good, not only because all men shun the company of 
perpetual severity, but also for that when they are in company, 
instructions seasoned with pleasantness both enter sooner and 
root deeper. Wherefore he condescended to human frailties, 
both in himself and others, and intermingled som.e mirth in 
his discourses occasionally, according to the pulse of the 
hearer." 

It is not pretended that Mr. Homer always indulged his 
facetiousness with a religious motive, and controlled it with 
a firmness of principle that never knew remission. He was 
not one of those perfect men who live in biographies but no- 
where else, and who never utter a word which dying they 
would wish to recall. All that we care to say in his praise 
is, that the charms of his conversation were greater, and the 
foibles of it less, than those of most men, even good men. 
His excellences were positive rather than negative, and he 
must have been more than human if they were never com- 
bined with a fault. His was a mind of vivacity and ardor, 
and it was a well regulated mind ; but these properties are 
less favorable than hebetude and coldness to the reputation 
of a perfectly faultless man. It was common indeed to speak 
of him as faultless, he was so free from the usual foibles of 
sedentary persons, from all the malignant feelings, from bigo- 
try and its kindred vices. But he well knew that one who 
offendeth not in word is a perfect man, and he was quick to 
confess that he had never attained this perfection. Design- 
ing to do good by innocent accommodations to others, he some- 



MEMOIR. 83 

times failed in his plan, and found it easier to go down to 
them than bring them up to himself His virtue lay in at- 
tempting to do good when others would shrink back from 
the effort ; and if in pursuing his purpose he found a tempta- 
tion which ^^ proved too strong for young Melancthon," even 
then his failing leaned to virtue's side ; but he mourned over 
it as one who aimed to be pure from the blood of all men. 

Of a summer evening, toward the close of a session in the 
Theological Seminary, as he was winding his way with a 
friend over one of their accustomed walks, he said, as nearly 
as can now be remembered, '' I never accomplished so much 
as I have done during the past term, but my influence has not 
been precisely what I wish to have it. In my excessive la- 
bors I resorted to mental relaxation as a duty, but I occasion- 
ally lost my regard to it as such, and sought it as a mere 
pleasure. I have found it hard to draw the line between the 
end of reason and the beginning of superstition, and easy to 
glide from facetiousness into what I have heretofore aimed 
to avoid, levity. But I must check myself on both sides, and 
in shunning lightness of speech must not fall into gloominess. 
When a man has committed one error he is strongly tempted 
to rush into another of a different sort. We must bear in 
mind that God never bestows a favor upon us which is not 
subject to perversion, and an enlightened faith will not allow 
us to trample on a gift of Providence because it may be 
abused. If we have a sprightliness of fancy, we must not 
become torpid through fear of being gay. I meant to enlarge 
mv usefulness bv the verv thinor which has diminished it, but 
I must not diminish it still more by despising an indulgence 
which I have used, at times, less wisely than I meant to do." 

He might have added, that after all, a failure in any at- 
tempt suggests some reason for gratitude. If the attempt 
were a bad one, we should be thankful that we have failed in 
it ; if it were a good one, we should be thankful that we have 
made it, and without the trial we could not have failed. He 



84 MEMOIR. 

who says nothing lest he should err, is further from perfec- 
tion than he who tries to say a useful thing, even though his 
success be not equal to his effort. There is a kind of taci- 
turnity which is '^ wise in fools, but foolish in wise men." It 
does no prominent mischief, and not even a latent good. So 
there is a kind of free converse which is a sweetener of hu- 
man life, and which disarms men strangely of an evil spirit, 
but which, though begun with a right aim, ends occasionally 
in some wrong impression. It springs, however, from a pos- 
itive virtue, and this, even a little of it, is better than blank 
stupidity. Heaven is the only place where we shall attain all 
that is good without any of its alloy ; and where holiness will 
cease to be regarded as a negative thing, a mere freedom from 
foibles without the energy of practical benevolence. 

In analyzing a character and dissecting each several attri- 
bute by itself, there is always danger of giving an undue promi- 
nence to some quality that is isolated from its connections. It 
should therefore be repeated, that the property which we have 
now been canvassing was not to all observers a striking, and 
to some not even a noticeable trait in Mr. Homer^s mind. It 
was not exhibited at all times and in all companies. His char- 
acter was comprehensive and symmetrical. Viewed from 
different points of observation it disclosed varying excellences, 
and no two of his friends would exactly agree in their delinea- 
tion of all its features. It may be said of him as of another, 
" You have not done with him when you have mentioned two 
or three good traits.'' 

It may also be remarked that if his example is to be fol- 
lowed, it should be followed in his labors as well as his re- 
liefs. " May I read Shakspeare as much as he did ?" Yes, 
if you will read it with as philosophical a spirit, and pray as 
earnestly for the guiding influences of Heaven. *^ May I 
take as much interest in the Essays of Elia as he took ?" 
Yes, if you will commune as he did with the master minds of 
the ancient world, if you will read the Greek and Hebrew 



MEMOIR. 85 

Scriptures with all of his sympathy and delight, and if like 
him you will aim to resist every impulse that lessens your 
fervor of devotion. He thouorht so often of the scenes that 
lie hidden behind the veil, his conscience was so enlightened, 
and his sense of decorum so exact, that he miofht often be 
trusted where others who have not his safeguards would be- 
come absorbed in a pastime, and convert a means into an 
end. He was enamored of innocence, and none the less 
so when he found it in pleasures ; but too many are enamored 
of pleasure none the less when it is devoid of innocence. At 
first view it seems easy to imitate a christian scholar in his 
diversions ; but we must remember that all true divertise- 
ment presupposes habitual toil, and that the pleasures of a 
Christian imply a sensitiveness of the moral faculty. He who 
would imitate another's repose must qualify himself for it by 
fatigue, and the fatigue of a good man is obtained by useful 
exertion. 

MR. HOMER AT SOUTH BERWICK. 

In May, 1840, while Mr. Homer was a member of the 
Theological Seminary, he spent nearly four weeks at South 
Berwick, Maine ; and by his preaching and pastoral labor so 
endeared himself to the Congregational church and society in 
that place, that they invited him to become their minister. So 
peculiar was the interest which they manifested in him, that 
after mature deliberation he accepted their call. He had 
been earnestly entreated to take the charge of a more conspic- 
uous parish in one of our Atlantic cities ; but he chose to 
dwell in a modest valley, amid scenes that favored his contem- 
plative habits, rather than to live amid noise and bustle and 
parade. 

The town of South Berwick is in the south-western part of 
the State of Maine, and is separated from the State of New 
Hampshire by a very narrow stream. The village is near 

8 



86 MEMOIR. 

the head of the navigation of the Piscataqua, and is about 
fourteen miles from Portsmouth, N. H. It contains four 
places for public worship ; the Methodist, Baptist, Free-will 
Baptist and Congregational, and half a mile from it is a small 
Episcopal church. It also contains a large and respectably 
endowed Academy, which was founded as early as 1792, and 
has exerted an important influence upon the character of the 
surrounding population. From some of the eminences in South 
Berwick there is a beautiful view of the village of Great Falls, 
four miles toward the north-west, and of several cascades upon 
the stream that winds through the valley. Agamenticus rises 
about ten miles distant, and adds a singular charm to the 
southern prospect from the village. There are three large 
manufacturing establishments in the place, and the town pre- 
sents many advantages for commercial enterprise. It con- 
tains two thousand three hundred inhabitants. The church 
over which Mr. Homer was ordained consists of one hundred 
and twenty-five members, and the congregation to which he 
preached varied from two hundred and fifty to three hundred. 
Twenty-five young men from this small town have been grad- 
uated at our collegiate institutions, and Mr. Homer ordinarily 
preached to twelve or fifteen persons who have received a lib- 
eral education. 

On the sixth of October, 1840, he was married, at Buffalo, 
N. Y. to Miss Sarah M. Brown, daughter of Mr. James F. 
Brown of Boston, and sister of Mr. Homer's early and la- 
mented friend. On the eleventh of November he was ordain- 
ed at South Berwick. A member^ of the Council that or- 
dained him has written the following description of his ap- 
pearance at this time. ^' He discovered at his examination a 
mind that was habituated to original thought. His religious 
views were decidedly evangelical, and had been embraced 
after a patient study. He had not adopted a creed because 
it was recommended by great names, and he avoided stereo- 



Rev. Silas Aiken, pastor of Park-street church, Boston, Mass. 



MEMOIR. 87 . 

typed phraseology in the statement of his faith. He had stu- 
died the Bible for himself, and was cautious of stating his 
views more strongly than his convictions would justify. He 
had evidently attended to the controverted points in meta- 
physics and philosophy which have relation to religious faith ; 
and when questions were put to him involving disputes of this 
nature, he was wary in his answers, for he anticipated other 
questions that might be in reserve. He saw whither the in- 
quiry would lead. The testimony of the Scriptures was to 
him a sufficient o;roand of faith ; but in matters of doubtful 
disputation, he w^ould declare a belief only so far as he had 
found reasons for one. He had marked the proper limits of 
faith. On subjects intrinsically difficult or doubtful, he ex- 
pressed himself with reserve. Where many young men, less 
acquainted with the liistory of religious opinions, would have 
blushed to confess ignorance, he freely declared his doubts, 
and seemed aware that others were equally in the dark with 
himself In a word, it was obvious that the principles and 
habits of mind, so early formed, gave promise of rare ability 
in stating, explaining and defending divine truth." 

The folio wincr is the Creed which Mr. Homer read before 
the Council, and from which he had, of set purpose, exclu- 
ded many of the technical phrases of theology. 

" 1 believe in the existence of God. I find that such a being is de- 
manded by my moral nature, and the evidence of my own spirit is 
confirmed by what I behold of the marks of design around me and 
within me. 

God has given in his word an infallible revelation of his own clia- 
racter, and of his relation to his creatures. From the Holy Scriptures, 
and from that liglit which every human being possesses in his own 
soul, should be compiled his system of religious belief. 

I accordingly believe that God is one, tliat he is absolutely eternal, 
without beginning and without end, and as lie exists without succes- 
sion, in him there can be neither change nor shadow of turning. That 
he has knowledge and power infinitely higher in kind and degree 
than the knowledge and power of his creatures, and that there is no 



88 MEMOIR. 

place in his universe where these attributes do not extend and act. 
I believe that to him may be ascribed goodness, mercy and grace, wis- 
dom, justice and veracity. These truths are most of them rendered 
highly probable by reason, and all of them are removed beyond a 
doubt by the express declaration of the Bible. 

A contemplation of the character of God proves how incomprehen- 
sible are his perfections, and renders it highly improbable that the 
mode of his existence would be similar to that of his creatures. Ac- 
cordingly I am fully prepared to believe what the Scriptures assert of 
the divinity of Father, Son and Holy Ghost, and in my faith, though 
not in my reason, to reconcile the Trinity with the Unity of God. 

I believe that God has known and determined, from all eternity, 
everything which exists. x\s a distinction is made in his administra- 
tion between the righteous and the wicked, 1 believe that it was al- 
ways intended. For wise reasons, known only to himself, God selected 
certain of his creatures to be the subjects of grace, and the heirs of 
glory ; while he determined to leave others to perish in their sins. 
At the same time, as the divine decree is not the rule of human con- 
dust, I shall preach that man is as free and independent in his moral 
and religious actions, as he is in the pursuit of his secular business, 
and that every man can obey the demands of the gospel, and will be 
punished for neglecting to avail himself of his ability. 

I believe that our first parents were for a time perfectly holy, but 
when they disobeyed the command of God, they fell at once from 
their pure estate, and all their posterity were involved in the conse- 
quences of their fall. Every human being now comes into the world 
with a bias to sin rather than to holiness, and all his moral acts are 
wrong until he becomes regenerated by the Spirit of God. The de- 
pravity of man implies a want of will, rather than a natural inability 
to obey the divine command. Nothing but the special influences of 
the Holy Spirit, operating through the truth, will change this perverse 
inclination, and make the sinner willing in the day of God's power. 
And he, who is once radically changed in his moral character, will be 
kept by divine grace from falling into final impenitence and ruin. 

In the renewed man there is still much of remaining imperfection, 
and no subsequent obedience can atone for previous sins. God has 
in mercy provided a way. of pardon for all men, through the death of 
Jesus Christ, the Mediator. By faith in this atoning Saviour we may 
be justified, not through the merit there is in faith, but through the 
grace that accepts a vicarious atonement for our sins. 

I believe that after death there is a retribution, the reprobate being 



MEMOIR. 89 

cast into a state of suffering, and the elect being introduced to scenes 
of joy. Not however until after the resurrection and judgment, 
will the misery of the one or happiness of the other be consummated. 
The soul is immortal, and every circumstance in its nature, and every 
indication of Scripture favor the idea that its retribution, for joy or for 
wo, will be as lasting as its existence." 

Soon after his ordination, Mr. Homer invited his parishion- 
ers to meet him of an evening, and to hear his plans for fu- 
ture labor. He stated to them that on the Wednesday, 
Thursday and Friday afternoons of each week, he should 
make pastoral visits; that on Monday, Tuesday and Satur- 
day afternoons he would be happy to see them at his lodgings ; 
that he should be in his study every forenoon, and then could 
not allow himself to be interrupted, unless in case of urgent 
necessity ; that he could not mingle in their social parties, for 
his evenings were too precious to be lost from his study. ^ He 
urged his hearers to regularity in their attendance upon the 
services of the sanctuary ; he assured them that he should 
labor on his sermons, and should preach on the Sabbath what 
he had written durinor the week, whether his auditors were 
many or few ; that he should have no rainy-day discourses 
for rainy-day audiences, and sun-shining sermons for a fair 
weather congregation, but should give to the few who disre- 
garded the storm, what he had prepared for the many who 
were more afraid of an unpleasant atmosphere than of spirit- 
ual poverty. His remarks on this occasion produced a salu- 
tary effect. The number of those who attended church on 
the unpleasant Sabbaths of his ministry was greater by half 
than had formerly ventured forth in a storm ; and though the 
frowning of the elements would still deter some of his people 
from visiting the sanctuary, it had less influence on his own 
congregation than on any other in the village. 

^ In a letter to a friend he says, " A minister must preserve the 
habits of a student; in other words, the student will out^ or rather 
will not out, winter evenings.'' 

8* 



90 MEMOIR. 

The industry and system to which he had habituated him- 
self in the preparatory schools were now his second nature. 
He had never quieted himself in a loose and irregular disci- 
pline, with the hope that when he entered upon active life, 
all the requisite good habits would come to him of their own 
accord. He prescribed certain hours for familiar converse 
with his friends, certain hours for his classical studies, three 
times a day for his private devotions, and, with his charac- 
teristic system, he wrote the names of different individuals in 
his society, for whom he was to offer especial prayer on suc- 
cessive days. 

His plans for beneficent action are said by his parishioners 
to have been formed and executed with peculiar sagacity and 
tact. He first endeavored to revive the Sabbath School, and 
by skilful efforts he gave an impulse to it which it is hoped 
will be productive of lasting good. He introduced an addi- 
tional number of both teachers and pupils into the school, 
and made it attractive to the old as well as the young. He 
was peculiarly attentive to the younger classes, and strong- 
ly attached them to himself When visiting a family, he 
was fond, like Robert Hall, of '' stealing in earlier than 
he was expected, that he might for a time share in the 
gambols and gayety of the children." He instituted a new 
plan for conducting the exercises of a weekly religious meet- 
ing, and for promoting among his people a systematic ac- 
quaintance with divine truth. On the Friday evening of one 
week, he would propose a subject, divide it into several 
branches, and appoint three or four members of his church 
to investigate each of these different parts, and state the re- 
sults of their investigation on the next Friday evening. Af- 
ter their remarks, he gave his own views of the subject, and 
they were always such as indicated a studious preparation. 
Having adopted several other expedients for quickening the 
religious feeling of his people, he devised a plan for awaken- 
ing among them a deeper interest in the cause of Foreign 



MEMOIR. 91 

Missions, and inducing them to contribute more generously 
to our various benevolent societies. He also intended to de- 
liver an address in the spring of the year, on the connexion 
between taste and religion, and hoped to persuade his fellovi^- 
citizens to adorn their village with ornamental trees and with 
promenades. 

The results of his brief ministry cannot be estimated with 
precision. It is ahvays difficult to ascertain the amount of 
evil which a preacher prevents, as well as the amount of good 
which he accomplishes ; to ascertain also those general im- 
pressions of his ministry, which are often more important 
than particular though striking instances of individual bene- 
fit. He united parties among his people that had previously 
been discordant. He allured to the sanctuary men who had 
formerly forsaken it. He gave to all an exalted idea of the 
pulpit, of a sermon, of the sacred office. He taught them 
to honor the ministry for its relations to the literature and 
the politics and the liberties, as well as to the virtues of the 
country. He produced such an impression upon his hearers 
as they had never felt before, that holiness of heart is essen- 
tial to all that is most lovely and alluring, and that opposition 
to evangelical truth is neither rational, nor safe, nor manly. 
From his ministry of four months, his professional brethren 
may learn both the real and factitious value of a sound schol- 
arship, in augmenting the influence of a preacher, in fitting 
the style of his discourses for a favorable operation upon his 
hearers, and predisposing them to rely on his statements as 
the statements of a practised thinker. They may also learn 
the eloquence which there is in an earnest desire to do good. 
It was the simple-hearted wish of Mr. Homer to promote the 
religious welfare of his people. They saw it, they felt it, they 
gave him their confidence as the reward of it. They loved 
him because he loved them. The religious zeal of a benevo- 
lent and refined and honest man, especially when it is con- 
joined with the character as well as the reputation of a schol- 



93 MEMOIR. 

ar, will always exert an influence, and often command hom- 
age. It will receive honor from the piety, the conscience of 
some, the amiable sentiment, the good sense of others. 

How long Mr. Homer would have attracted the admiration 
which he received in the morning of his ministerial life, can- 
not be determined. His pungent appeals to the conscience of 
his hearers might have increased his real power over them, and 
at the same time have diminished his seeming popularity ; for 
it is not always the most popular minister who is the most in- 
fluential. But until the time of his death, the interest of his 
people in his ministrations was regularly increasing. His 
visits became more and more acceptable, every sermon w^as 
thought to be more powerful than the preceding, and his last 
appearance in the pulpit is described by them as if they had 
seen an anorel. ^^ Those who were absent from his church 
on a Sabbath would often come to me," said one of his par- 
ishioners, '' and ask me to repeat what I could remember of 
his sermon ; and his arrangement was so lucid that I could 
easily recall his main ideas." Many of his hearers are de- 
scribed as fixing their eyes upon him steadfastly, and as giv- 
ing to him that earnest attention which a minister loves to re- 
ceive. ^' The house was so still that the slightest whisper 
could be heard in it." He secured the esteem of other de- 
nominations as well as of his own, and was useful not only as 
the minister of a sect, but as a teacher of the whole commu- 
nity. After the lapse of more than a year, his incidental re- 
marks are daily quoted, and the veneration for his memory 
has excited the wonder of strangers who have casually visited 
the place. So strong and deep and long continued an im- 
pression upon so intelligent a people, is one sign of his power 
and worth. Had he labored among them a third of a century, 
rather than a third of a year, we might have anticipated the 
influence that is still exerted by his precepts and example. 
But we did not expect that he would have compressed into 
four months, the efficiency of a long life. '^ Honorable age 



MEMOIR. 93 

is not that which standeth in length of time, nor which is 
measured by number of years ; but wisdom is the gray hair 
unto men, and an unspotted life is old age." 

MR. HOMER AS A PREACHER. 

There are various standards of pulpit eloquence, no one of 
which can be praised to the exclusion of any other. ^* Every 
man hath his proper gift of God, one after this manner, and 
another after that." A true liberality of christian taste will 
be gratified with the doctrines of the gospel though they be 
administered in varying forms. All ministers need not write 
and speak ''just as we do." Men of narrow views would 
fain banish from the pulpit every preacher who is not elegant 
and refined, but the great Reformer said, " Human nature is 
a rouorh thinor and must have some roucrh ministers to chas- 
tise it." There is a class of the community who never will 
be reached by softnesses and delicacies of language. We of- 
ten hear it said that all abstruse reasoning and recondite 
speculation are unseemly for the pulpit. But there are some 
hearers who demand a philosophical style of address, and will 
listen to none but philosophical preachers. Others are preju- 
diced against the refinements of language and the graces of 
delivery. No one, they say, was ever converted by a meta- 
phor, and poetry is neither " doctrine, nor reproof, nor correc- 
tion, nor instruction in righteousness." But there are men of 
poetical fancy in our parishes, and they are as immortal as 
men of business, and have as much need of salvation, and are 
as much entitled to be addressed in an ornate style as children 
are in a simple one or mathematicians in a dry one. " Are 
all apostles ? are all prophets ? are all teachers ? are all work- 
ers of miracles? have all gifts of healing? do all speak with 
tongues ? do all interpret ? But covet earnestly the best gifts." 

It is not claimed that Mr. Homer's discourses present a 
model to which all ministers should conform, but they meet 



94 MEMOIR. 

one demand of our natures which is too seldom gratified. 
He was not a rude preacher, but he was plain-spoken when 
he thought it desirable to be so ; he was not distinctively a 
metaphysical preacher, but he did not always avoid severity 
of argument. He had more depth of thought than men of his 
physical conformation are often supposed to have. He was 
not large of stature, he walked with sprightliness, his voice 
though masculine was not deep-toned, and he was not clum- 
sy in his attitudes. Now a man who is thus formed will be 
regarded by some as less profound, than those who have a 
heavy movement and a very deep enunciation. So much are 
men affected, consciously or unconsciously, by the outward 
appearance, in judging of the inward character. The nodos- 
ities of the oak are deemed essential to its strength. But if 
the subject of this memoir had been inferior to the majority 
of students in mental vigor or acumen, he would not have 
been so enthusiastic and persevering in his study of the Greek 
orators and critics, nor would he have selected Bishop Butler 
as the companion of his leisure hours. But he was sensitive 
rather than profound, and literary rather than scientific. His 
superiority lay in his quick sympathies with the beautiful and 
the good, in his ardent and varied emotion, and in the versa- 
tile energies of his mind. He was a man of taste. He would 
gaze in silence at an Andover sunset until the last golden 
tint had vanished. He would instinctively stop his walk, that 
he might listen to the song of a bird. Some graceful or ma- 
jestic sentence in Jeremy Taylor or Richard Hooker was 
ever present in his memory. By his multifarious reading, es- 
pecially in the ancient classics, he had acquired a flexible 
style of composition ; and this, united with his freshness of 
feeling, his earnest and natural delivery, gave an extempora- 
neous air to his written discourses. It was by his delicacy of 
sentiment, his elastic fancy, and the gracefulness of his inner 
and outer man, that he would most easily have distinguished 
himself above his brethren in the pulpit. Those who read 



MEMOIR. 95 

his published sermons will perceive his blandness of temper, 
and the mellowTiess of his social and christian spirit, his re- 
fined and classic taste, his well stored memory. But some of 
his qualities as a preacher are not so distinctly visible in his 
printed discourses, as in those which are excluded by want 
of space from the present volume. A few of the characteris- 
tics which are prominent in his unpublished sermons may 
here be mentioned. 

He was a systematic preacher. It is not meant that he ad- 
justed the thoughts of every single discourse with logical ex- 
actness, but each of his sermons was a part of an extended se- 
ries. No one of them was a mere isolated address. This 
discourse was designed to modify the impression of that, 
and that was intended to prepare the way for a third, and 
the third was not complete without reference to others. 
He had formed the plan for his pulpit efforts for several 
months or even years to come. He had already commenced 
two series of doctrinal sermons, although he deemed it inad- 
visable to announce the fact that he was preaching the parts 
of a system. One of these courses was on the character and 
state of man ; another on the existence and attributes of God. 
He had \\Titten two sermons in the first course and four in 
the second, and had sketched the topics and divisions for 
seven or eight lectures in a third course. 

Mr. Homer aimed to unite in his sermons, the doctrinal, 
the historical and the practical element. " It will be one ob- 
ject of my preaching," he said from the pulpit on the Sab- 
bath after his ordination, '* to present in a systematic form 
the doctrines of our evanorelical faith — such as I find them 
in the word of God, or the revelation of our own conscious- 
ness. I am persuaded that there is a way of making the 
sternest theology come home to the human bosom, and of 
clothing the dry bones of metaphysical belief with the breath- 
ing forms of life. I believe that the minds of my people will 
be greatly enlarged and invigorated by contemplating such 



96 MEMOIR. 

subjects as the nature and character and law of God, the 
free agency and immortality of the human soul, and I am en- 
couraged in guiding you to these investigations, by the assu- 
rance that though they lead us through fields of mystery, 
though they demand a concentration of thought from which 
the effeminate may well shrink, though they constrain us often, 
after all our toils, to sit down and mourn over our own little- 
ness, yet they all end in practical religion, in a clearer defin- 
ing of the relation between God and man, in a louder enforce- 
ment of human duty, in a surer guidance to heaven. i 

" I shall aim also to have much of my preaching historical 
in its style, because I look upon that historical book, the Bible, 
as a good model for the discourses of the pulpit. The taste 
for history in the human mind ought to be gratified, especial- 
ly when it can be made the avenue for communicating so 
much spiritual truth. The scenes and characters of the Old 
and New Testament, from the antiquated form in which they 
are presented, and chiefly from our familiarity with the lan- 
guage of the story, have lost their interest to us. We read 
over and over again the most thrilling incidents with no emo- 
tion. Now here is a field for the preacher to enter, labori- 
ous indeed, but in the highest degree exciting and useful. 
He may embellish the old narrative Vvith the lights of modern 
study, he may transform the language of history into a dra- 
matic and life-like diction, bringing the scene home to the 
sympathies of his people, and then applying the distant and 
past, to the present and near.^ 

^^ But it is the chief intellectual glory of evangelical preach- 
ing that it is addressed to the conscience. It is interesting 
to notice how the ministry that arouses this inward monitor, 
that calls into exercise this great faculty of the soul, will pre- 
serve its power and exert its charm over intellectual men. I 

^ See Appendix to the Memoir, Note A. 
2 See Appendix to the Memoir, Note B. 



MEMOIR. 97 

wish to be distinctly understood at the outset of my ministry, 
that I expect to gratify rather than offend men by stirring 
up their consciences, and if I am ever so unfortunate as to 
lose the respect and friendship of my people, 1 hope I shall 
have sense enough to attribute the failure to anything ra- 
ther than the closeness of my preaching. I should be as 
much ashamed of myself, if I could give no better reason for 
losing my hearers, as I should of those who could dislike me 
for no better cause. There was a distinguished evangelical 
divine, who commenced his ministrations in one of our cities, 
at a time when a lax theology had begun to * fill the pulpit 
and empty the pews.' Crowds thronged around the man of 
God, and among them the men of fashion and might and 
mind, whose names were enrolled among the congregations 
of the chapels of ease, but whom the Sabbath evening lecture 
would gather in to listen with awe and admiration to the doc- 
trines they would rather die than believe. Sometimes the 
appeal was so pungent that they went out foaming with rage, 
and vowing that they would hear the fanatic no more. Still, 
there was a strange charm in that eye of reproof, which fol- 
lowed them through the week, and the next Sabbath evening 
bell would find them turning the despised corner, and mak- 
ing their way through the crowded aisle, and bracing them- 
selves for another shock. The truth was, there was a de- 
mand in their higher nature which was not met by the weak 
and sickly homilies of their own preachers. They wanted 
something vigorous to grapple with, something that stirred 
up from the lowest depths the stagnant elements of their mo- 
ral nature. They wanted stronger meat to satisfy the impor- 
tunate cravings of minds that were well fed on every other 
subject but religion. And they found what they wanted for 
intellectual gratification in those manly views of doctrine, 
and those plain reproofs of sin. Tell me not then, ye timid 
spirits, oh talk not of the inexpediency of preaching to the 
conscience, when a distinguished writer has said, * Raise me 
9 



98 MEMOIR. 

but a barn, in the very shadow of St. Paul's cathedral, and 
with the conscience-searching powers of a Whitefield, I will 
throng that barn with a multitude of eager listeners, while 
the matins and vespers of the cathedral shall be chanted to 
the statues of the mighty dead.' " 

In his practical preaching Mr. Homer designed to be moral 
as well as evangelical. He had himself been desirous of at- 
taining the virtues of a man, as well as the graces of a Chris- 
tian, and it was natural to expect that he would strive to or- 
nament, as well as to sanctify the souls of his people. His 
sermons are in this respect a fair index of his character. In 
a letter to a candidate for the ministry, he says, " Let me ad- 
vise you to dwell much in your sermons on an elevated chris- 
tian morality. Such a subject would be peculiarly adapted 
to the wants of such a people as yours, and is required for 
counteracting the Antinomian tendencies of the present age. 
This is a subject which has been forced upon me of late, by 
flagrant instances of criminality in the church and the minis- 
try, w^hich seem to indicate that one can be a good Christian 
and a very bad man. The fact seems to be, that in avoiding 
the cold and sordid system of those who choose to call them- 
selves rational rather than evangelical, some of us have run 
to the other extreme. AYhat are technically called the ' doc- 
trines of grace,' have been so exclusively preached by some, 
that their relative beauty is impaired and the symmetry of the 
character formed on them is disturbed. There are Christians 
who seem to have not very elevated views of the duty of speak- 
ing and acting the truth, and of other matters equally trite 
and simple. The minister who in the present day should 
preach up the ten commandments with the aid of our Saviour's 
exegesis, and should follow them into all their spiritual signi- 
fication, would do much to purify the church. He would se- 
cure one of the chief beauties of grace which is fruit. He 
would come down artfully, yet with all the power of the gos- 



MEMOIR. 99 

pel, upon the moral men who care not for religion ; for where 
is there true morality, spiritual obedience to the law on Sinai, 
except in the bosom that has felt the power of the cross ? 
He would teach his people the important truth that the best 
Christians are not those who merely feel, but those who do 
likewise." 

It has already been remarked that Mr. Homer was faithful 
in his public reproofs of sin. Some of his friends, knowing 
the gentleness of his nature, supposed that he might be more 
complaisant in the pulpit than bold ; but his character was 
versatile, and when he became a preacher he ceased to be 
a classical annctator. He accommodated himself at once to 
the exiorencies of his office. If there be one feature of his 
unpublished sermons more noticeable than another, it is the 
pungency, the severity of his denunciation against sin and 
sinners, against the pride of the rich, the envy and demure- 
ness of the poor, the ingratitude of both classes to him who 
being rich became poor for our sake, the slothful ness and in- 
efficiency of the church, the hard-heartedness and obstinacy 
of the world. The fact is, he was so kind in his feelings, so 
sincere in his motive and manner, so obviously intent upon 
doing his great work and his whole work and doing it well, 
that he could say anything to his people, and they would love 
him the more for saying it. They respected him for his re- 
proof, it was so honest-hearted. He seemed to be so much 
absorbed in the subject of his discourse, and to place it so 
completely before himself, that all complaints against him, 
must fiist pass through the truths which he declared. He 
appeared to be lost in his theme, and neither to know nor 
care whether it would be grateful to his hearers. Few men 
would dare to utter some of the words which he spoke, yet 
he was safe in uttering them, for he was intrenched in the 
good will of all who heard him. 

Another characteristic of Mr. Homer's unpublished dis- 



100 MEMOIR. 

courses is individuality. He wrote as an individual, as him- 
self. He wrote for individuals, for his own hearers, and not 
for his countrymen in general. One of his favorite mottos 
for preaching was the quaint stanza of John Bunyan : 

" Thine only way, 
Before them all, is to say out thy say 
In thine oicn native language^ which no man 
Now useth, nor with ease dissemble can." 

He did not own a book of texts which might guide him to 
the choice of a subject. The Bible was a sufficient text-book, 
and the wants of his people suggested more themes than he 
found time to discuss. He never could have learned to use 
Simeon's Skeletons, nor would Sturtevant's plan for filling 
out those skeletons, have been anything to his mind but con- 
fusion worse confounded. The main power of his unpub- 
lished sermons lay in the fact that they were out-flo wings from 
his own mind and heart. They abound with passages that 
would arrest the attention of every hearer, not so much be- 
cause they were brilliant as because they were natural, and 
nature, wherever and whatever it be, will command the sym- 
pathies of men ; not so much because they contained new 
truths as because they were shaped in a new way, and the 
way was appropriate not to ministers in general, but to Mr. 
Homer, not to all people but to the people at South Berwick, 
not on all occasions but on the very Sabbath, and that part 
of the Sabbath when the sermon was preached. 

In illustrating the idea that spiritual wakefulness does not 
consist in dreaming about realities, he writes in one of his 
sermons, *' Upon my own mind, overworked with study, or 
overburdened with care, the night has sometimes stolen in 
the full tide of my excited action, and there is not one of the 
duties of my pastoral vocation that I have not performed in 
my sleep. But I never value these mental exercises for then 



MEMOIR. 101 

I am not awake. The sleep may be diseased and uneasy, it 
may give no rest to the tossing spirit, but it is sleep still." 

In the same discourse, he says, *^ Neither does spiritual 
wakefulness consist in a momentary starting up from sleep. 
The slothful man often has these temporary starts, and through 
his half-closed eyelids, he looks out of the window at the thorns 
and the nettles, and the broken down wall. But he begs for 
a little more sleep and a little more slumber, a little more 
folding of the hands to sleep, and before his words are utter- 
ed, he has again sunk down in unconscious stupor. O, how 
often have I watched the emotions that strucrcrle on the face of 
some habitual sleeper in church ! Conscience sits there on 
his forehead to raise the falling lid, and the lip quivers with 
many a wakeful purpose ; but the eye is vacant instead of be- 
ing fixed with a becoming resolution, and the good man, amid 
a thousand fears and doubts and wishes and plans to keep 
awake, is again overcome." 

At the close of a sermon on the Eternity of God, he says, 
" It is a terrible thing to sin against such a being ; against a 
beino- who stands still while we are movinor on, with whom 
our acres of fororetfulness are all one moment, and in whose 
mind our sins, though committed long and long ago, are as 
fresh and as clear as the present. My aged friend, there was 
a certain sin which you committed in early youth. Its re- 
morseful pangs are now all obliterated. Its very features are 
fading, fast fading from view. Idly you imagine that by the 
day of your death, or a few ages of eternity onward, it will be 
all gone. But no ! with the great I AM there can be no for- 
getfulness ; no ocean of time sweeps over him its oblivious 
current; your sin is safe, safe in a mind that cannot grow old. 
My young friend, you have been sinning to-day. God saw 
you, you know he did. This morning you disobeyed your 
mother, this forenoon you have been trifling in the house of 
God, this noon you are going into the Sabbath school with no 

9* 



102 MEMOIR. 

love for the Bible ; you will go home to seek the idle story 
rather than the book that tells about Jehovah, and to-night, 
— mark my words and prove me if they are not true, — to- 
night, when you lie down to rest, it shall be written against 
you in your own conscience, that you are a sabbath-breaker. 
Yet to-morrow you will forget it all, and you think because 
you have forgotten it, it will be all over. But ah ! there is no 
to-morrow with the God who looks down upon your sin. To- 
morrow, and next week, and next year, and next century, 
and on and on into eternity, the great I AM is ; and he looks 
down forever with the same fixed gaze upon the sin you com- 
mit to-day. And when it has become far, far distant from 
your own eye, if the film of eternal ages could gather over it, 
it is always just as close and present to his searching gaze. 
My friends, how sad to think that every sin becomes eternal 
from the eternity of that being who sees it ; and when we 
sin one moment, we do that which God must abhor forever 
and ever. But still more sad, when in another world we shall 
ourselves be armed with a like power ; when to our own con- 
sciences, in their resurrection day, the past must seem like 
the present ; when sins between which there was an interval 
of weeks and months and years shall all rise up together, an ex- 
ceeding great army ; when eternity shall be a mirror in which 
the great past is ever reflected like an eternal Now. And in 
that work of retribution, unless we have secured an advocate 
and a refuge, the great I AM will stand over us and say, — 
not for tJwse, but for these, not you were, but you are, you are 
my enemies." 

So far was Mr. Homer from adopting the general style of 
address which may apply to everybody or anybody or nobody 
in the congregation, a style which is intended to please that 
class of hearers who are ever appropriating to their neighbors, 
what ought to have been designed for themselves, he particular- 
ized his hearers and addressed his reproofs to *^ the sinners in 



MEMOIR. 103 

this house/' ^' in these pews/' " to you who are slighting your 
early baptism/' ^' to you who are violating your sacramental 
vow/' to those listless hearers, *' from whose iron visages the 
words bound back into the preacher's face/' and in a single 
instance he addresses a rebuke to " one or two persons among 
those who worship in this temple/' and who would neither 
misapprehend nor dislike his open-hearted fidelity. In his 
delivery he used the ^' indicative gesture/' and the spirit of 
his language was, '' Thou art the man." He once wrote a 
sermon chiefly for the sake of benefiting a single individual. 
If he had not possessed and been known to possess a harmless 
temper, this individualizing process would have become an 
offensive personality. But a good reputation, like the shield 
of faith, will ward off the fiery darts of many who obey not 
the truth. 

Nearly allied to the individuality of his discourses is their 
simplicity. There may be a want of this excellence in his 
choice of words, and he was too fond of the Greek inversion 
in his arrangement of them. But in the spirit and genius of 
his discourses, there is much of that intangible quality which 
so many writers have vainly attempted to describe. He gives 
frequent specimens of what Marmontel calls, ** that sort of 
amiable ingenuousness or undisguised openness which seems 
to give us some degree of superiority over the person who 
shows it ; a certain infantine simplicity which we love in our 
hearts, but which displays some features of the character that 
we think we should have wit enough to hide ; and which 
therefore always leads us to smile at the person who disco- 
vers this quality." The secret of the pleasure we derive 
from such a character is found in its freedom from artifice. 
We are interested in the friend or companion who is not per- 
petually asking himself, liow will my words sound to others? 
what will the people think of this deed or that ? but who is 
willing to act out his own impulses under the appropriate 
operation of some truth present to his mind. This sort of 



104 MEMOIR. 

simplicity is manifested in ways innumerable. When one 
utters a trite idea without the least suspicion that it will be 
considered too unimportant to be expressed in such sober 
language, as when Izaak Walton says that Sir Henry Wot- 
ton " retired into his study, and there made many of his pa- 
pers, that had passed his pen both in the days of his youth 
and in the busy part of his life, useless by a fire made there 
to that purpose ;" when one makes a statement which will 
be received with incredulity or with ridicule, and makes it 
without the least apparent apprehension that it will be misun- 
derstood or abused, as when the honest Izaak says of the 
same Sir Henry, who was suspected of a plagiarism, that 
" reason mixed with charity should persuade us to believe 
that Sir Henry's mind was so fixed on that part of the com- 
munion of saints which is above, that a holy lethargy did 
surprise his memory," or when one exposes his own secret 
fears and failings with the guilelessness of a man who does 
not dream that others are watching his frailties, in these, and 
numberless other modes we are touched and won upon by 
that simplicity which has been called the ^^ nameless grace of 
an imperfect man." In his unpublished sermons Mr. Homer 
has communicated many thoughts which his brethren in the 
ministry might thank him for expressing, and still excuse 
themselves from uttering the same. We often love to have 
things said, but not exactly to say them ourselves. He ex- 
pressed his honest feelings in an honest way. Critics may 
smile at his childlike frankness, but men and women and 
children will sympathize with such a minister far more than 
with one who measures his sentences, and never speaks with- 
out calculating the results of each syllable. However correct 
the words may be, if they seem to have come from the public 
mint, and not to be part and parcel of the speaker himself, . 
ihey are stale and powerless. They are coined words, but 
human nature cries out for words that flow forth spontane- 
ously. They are stamped words, but it is the living and 



MEMOIR. 105 

breathinor phrase that reaches the hidden places of the heart. 
They are indeed safe words, producing no kind of evil be- 
cause they produce no kind of effect. It will always be true of 
them, that they are better fitted for posterity than for any liv- 
ing generation. He who is " coldly correct and critically 
dull" may satisfy a reviewer, but never melts the spirit of a 
man. 

Taking a great interest in the fruits of his mental toil, Mr. 
Homer was not ashamed to confess that, on his oivn account 
as well as for their good, he desired the regular attendance of 
his people at church. He not only taught them that they 
might become better, but he owned that he should feel better , 
if they were constant in their visits to the sanctuary. '' I en- 
treat you," he says, ** that you be not over scrupulous about 
the height of the thermometer, or the aspect of the clouds on 
a Sabbath morning, that you doom not the preacher to come 
in from a lowering and desolate sky to the more desolate 
scenes of an empty church. I mean not to intrude upon the 
delicacies of life, and I know there are many constitutions 
that will not bear an exposure to the inclemency of the storm. 
I leave every man's conscience to be his bodily physician. 
But I beg of you to be consistent patients ; for that admirable 
doctor is never more stupid than under the sound of a church- 
going bell, and if the fireside of home looks inviting, and the 
storm beats cheerlessly against the window, above all if the 
heart from within does not cry out for the courts of the Lord, it 
is easy, too easy to get an invalid's exeniption from our unscien- 
tific guide, or to conjure up some lion, in the shape of a for- 
midable snow-drift, or a pelting rain, or a smoky house, no 
one of which would excuse us to a client, or a customer, but 
any one of them we can put off on our minister or our God. 
Still politeness forbids me to enter the private circle and say 
to this and that person, you ought to be at church ; as a gen- 
tleman I leave you to judge for yourselves. But as a minis- 
ter, you must excuse me if I beg of you to remember the poor 



106 MEMOIR. 

man whose profession obliges him to go to church in all weath- 
ers, whose taste will not permit him to reward the faithful 
few with an old sermon, or a desultory talk inspired by empty 
pews, whose sense of justice obliges him to bring out the hard 
earnings of a week's toil, when one and another and another 
for whom that sermon was written are not in their seats. I 
say, I wish they would think of him from the good easy chair, 
and by the blazing hearth of home, and cast over him the 
wing of their sympathy if they cannot give him the light of 
their faces." 

In the same discourse he says, '^ You should listen to the 
preaching of the gospel with a careful regard to the feelings of 
your minister. Remember that he is a man ; by education, by 
profession, it may be by temperament a sensitive man. He has 
eyes that can see. He has ears that can hear. He has a heart 
that can feel. Let the delicate and honorable deference with 
which you meet him in the street, or welcome him to your dwel- 
lings, not be entirely laid aside, vvhen he stands before you as 
the messenger of God. There are many persons who act as if 
they supposed that the eminence of the pulpit raised their 
minister above the level of human feelings, that it was round 
about him like an impregnable fortress, and every mark of 
contempt or disrespect or inattention from the audience falls 
as powerless as if he were a senseless machine. If he visit 
them at their homes, they would be ashamed to treat him with 
such coldness and scorn, and it would be deemed the lowest 
indecency to look out of the window, or to read a newspaper, 
or to drop asleep in the chair while he was talking with them ; 
but when he stands before them in the pulpit, they borrow a 
license from his remoteness and his elevation, as well as from 
the multitude who share the responsibility of their politeness, 
and they never dream that it is rude and ungentlemanly, to 
be gazing around the house, or turning over a hymn-book, or 
w hispering some pleasantry to a neighbor, or fixing themselves 



MEMOIR. 1 07 

in a good position for sleep. The truth is, my friends, the 
minister is and ought to be more keenly sensitive to these 
marks of public disrespect, than he would be to private and 
personal contempt. An insult is offered to the fruits of his 
own mental toil. A contempt is thrown upon his high office 
as a preacher. The solemnly dedicated house of worship 
seems, in their view, to have a claim for decorum inferior to 
the highway or the parlor. More than all, that august Being 
in whose name he speaks, before whom angels cast their 
crowns in ceaseless adoration, Jehovah himself is repulsed by 
the coldness and stupidity of earthly worshippers. And I 
wonder how a man can preach, when such reflections are 
pressed upon him with overwhelming power from a careless 
or trifling or sleeping audience. 

'^ Let me urge you then, as one gratification and encourage- 
ment to the preacher, to hear with the attitude and appear- 
ance of attention. I think it cannot be generally known 
how distinct and perfect is the observation of the audience 
from the pulpit. The hearer sees that the eyes of the minis- 
ter are sometimes directed towards himself, but he never im- 
agines that they distinguish him from the mass of worship- 
pers. The fact is, the preacher from his observatory can dis- 
cover evervthincr. There is not a corner of the church which 
his eye does not penetrate. He traces the vacant seats in 
each pew and knows who is absent. He observes the posi- 
tion of ever hearer in the house. He hears every remote 
whisper. He sees every mark of frivolity. He feels every 
symptom of gaping listlessness. He could go round from 
family to family during the week, and detail with wonderful 
accuracy their deportment in the house of God, their interest 
in the Sabbath services, what they had gained and what they 
had lost of the sermon. Were it proper to unfold the distinct 
recollection of my own recent ministrations among yourselves, 
you would be surprised to find such minute circumstances in 
your past history brought back to you with the accuracy of 



108 MEMOIR. 

present consciousness. I could speak of some who came 
regularly every morning and staid away regularly every after- 
noon ; little thinking how quickly the vacant seat would be 
noticed, and how keenly the neglect would be felt by the 
stranger. I could speak of others, to whom I looked in vain, 
Sabbath after Sabbath and sentence after sentence, for one 
returning glance, to show that they saw and heard me. I 
could go to others and remind them that they had listened to 
particular parts of each sermon, and followed me with only a 
fitful interest. And I could speak with gratitude of the ma- 
ny eyes, that were fixed upon me with a uniform attention, and 
to which I turned from the discouraging aspect of the dull 
and the listless, and found unfailing relief and refreshment. 
I thought then, if I could only have a congregation filled with 
such hearers, wdth not one vacant look, with every form erect, 
w^ith every eye fixed upon the preacher, with every feature 
beaminor with interest and excitement, with the earnest and 
respectful and constant attention which the truth of God, in 
whatever form it be ministered, ought to receive; if I could 
stand up Sabbath after Sabbath, before such an audience, 
what a soul-stirring animation would be kindled in my speech, 
what a delightful glow would follow me home from my Sab- 
bath labors, and during the weekly preparations of the study, 
what life and force would be breathed into me from the con- 
sciousness that I wrote for all those attentive eyes, and 
thought for all those excited minds, and felt for all those 
beating hearts. 

^' I am sensible that many persons have acquired a habit of 
listeninor without this attitude of attention, and we should do 
wrong to judge merely from the outward appearance. I have 
known individuals who could look up and down and every- 
where except at the preacher, and seem to be intent upon 
everything rather than the sermon, who were at the same 
time pondering and treasuring every word that was uttered. 
But for the sake of example, and to secure that sympathy of 



MEMOIR. 109 

interest which so quickly diffuses itself through a whole con- 
gregation, I would urge it upon all, to avoid that nervous rest- 
lessness which obliges them constantly to change their posi- 
tion or to vary their view, and would request them to keep 
the eye ever on the pulpit. That fixed attitude, and that ear- 
nest gaze shall secure their own reward. 

" There is one other thought connected with this subject 
to which you will pardon me for alluding. You are aware 
that there is novv* extensively prevalent among ministers of the 
gospel, a singular paralysis of the vocal organs, which has 
driven many from their pulpits and their flocks. The disease 
is one which has eluded the researches of medical science, 
as it has baffled the reach of medical skill. But among the 
many theories to account for its origin, I have found none 
more philosophical or more consonant with my own experi- 
ence, than that which attributes it to the stupidity and inat- 
tention of an audience. It is well known that there is an ac- 
tive sympathy between the mind and the body, and what more 
natural than that a depressed and embarrassed spirit should 
deranore an oro^an so delicate and sensitive as the human 
voice. Those of you who are at all accustomed to public 
speaking can testify how much the ease of your utterance 
depends upon the interest of your audience. If you find 
it hard to make yourself understood, or the force of your 
argument falls powerless upon stupid hearers, the utterance 
at once becomes difficult, the mouth is quickly parched and 
dry, there is a choking sensation about the throat, a thou- 
sand impediments seem to check the flow of language, the 
speaking is all up-hill work, and you sit down with the vocal 
orcrans irritated and inflamed, and an exhaustion of vour 
whole system tenfold greater, than if you spoke to an audi- 
ence so full of sympathy and interest and excitement that the 
flow was easy from your heart to theirs. For myself, I con- 
fess, so great has sometimes been the physical difficuhy with 
which I have preached to a trifling or listless congregation, 

10 



110 MEMOIR. 

that I have been ready to wish that in the pulpit I could be 
stripped of every sense and every faculty but that of speech, 
so that there might not come in through my eyes and my ears 
and my w^ounded sensibilities, so many impediments to the 
easy current of my language." 

Another characteristic of Mr. Homer's performances in 
the pulpit was unity. He always endeavored to finish his 
discourses as early as the noon of Saturday, and he spent the 
afternoon and evening of that day in the selection of appro- 
priate hymns, and in preparation for the unwritten exercises 
of the pulpit. ^^ One thing," says a writer from South Ber- 
wick, " which could not fail to attract the notice of the most 
careless hearer, was the completeness and mutual harmony of 
all the parts of Mr. Homer's Sabbath exercises. The prayer, 
the sermon, the hymns were nicely adjusted portions of one 
well constructed whole. His hearers did not leave the sanc- 
tuary with minds distracted in the attempt to grasp two or 
more grand ideas, suggested by different parts of the service, 
but the one great truth which had been made prominent in 
the discourse was so often repeated in the other services, as 
to engross the whole attention. While the sermon was the ar- 
row designed to reach the heart, the remaining exercises did 
but sharpen the point and speed the flight of that missile. He 
never lost sight of the truth or doctrine which he was endea- 
voring to establish, and rarely suffered himself to be drawn 
aside into any episodes, or to be diverted into the discussion 
of any kindred but collateral topic. The ideas suggested by 
the text he seemed intent on reducing to the smallest possible 
compass, and deriving from them the one great impression of 
his discourse. It may not be improper to state, in showing 
the benefits of this kind of preaching and the skilful manner 
in which he conducted it, that not a few of his hearers yet 
retain in memory the ground-work and detail of many of his 
sermons, and are able to state the general position which was 



MEMOIR. Ill 

advocated, and each argument by which it was sustained, in 
its order." 

Another of Mr. Homer's aims in the pulpit was to give a 
variety of religious instruction. He who secures unity in 
every single discourse, may secure the greater variety in his 
several discourses. '' There are some persons," he said to 
his people, '' who dislike preaching on the doctrines, and 
others wdio cannot bear preaching on anything else. As a 
minister of Jesus I am called upon rightly to divide the truth, 
and I cannot please any one of these opposites to the exclusion 
of all the rest. It is selfish and unreasonable for one individual 
to set himself up as the standard for a whole congregation, 
and to demand a constant succession of services which will 
gratify himself alone, and leave many as hungry as himself un- 
fed. Such an aristocratic and arrogant demand would be 
frowned down anywhere else, and I must insist upon its un- 
reasonableness here. I beg of you, therefore, who can see 
no manner of profit in metaphysical refinements, or theologi- 
cal speculation, who are perpetually crying out for sermons 
on the christian virtues, for something practical to improve 
the life, I must beg of you not to nestle in your seats and put 
down your heads because to-day I strive to fortify the faith of 
the church, or remove the doubts of the wavering ; for next 
Sabbath, your turn shall come, when, so help me God, I will 
stir up your consciences, and probe your characters, and 
strive to make you better men than you are. And I beg of 
you, if such there be, who are suspicious of every deviation 
from the old standards, and who would like no more variety 
than depravity and election to-day, election and depravity to- 
morrow, I must beg of you to lay by your jealousies and 
anxieties, if there are some sermons where your fondly cher- 
ished formulas are not even mentioned. To the Jew I hope 
to become a Jew, yet not on every Sabbath ; to the Greek, I 
will become Greek, yet not in every sermon ; to each man 
dividing his portion in due season, if by any means I may 



112 MEMOIR. 

There is one description of the great model for all preach- 
ers, which Mr. Homer often read with delight, and spoke of 
as an epitome of the rules by which he meant to be guided in 
the sacred office. ^' Our Saviour," it is said, " did not ad- 
dress one passion or part of our nature alone, or chiefly. 
There was no one manner of address, and we feel sure as we 
read that there was no one tone. He did not confine him- 
self to any one class of subjects. He was not always speak- 
ing of death, nor of judgment, nor of eternity, frequently and 
solemnly as he spoke of them. He was not always speaking 
of the state of the sinner, nor of repentance and the new heart, 
though on these subjects too he delivered his solemn m.essage. 
There was a varied adaptation in his discourses, to every con- 
dition of mind and every duty of life, and every situation in 
which his hearers were placed. Neither did the preaching 
of our Saviour possess exclusively any one moral complexion. 
It was not terror only, nor promise only ; it was not exclu- 
sively severity nor gentleness ; but it was each one of them 
in its place, and all of them always subdued to the tone of 
perfect sobriety.'^ 

The general spirit of Mr. Homer^s unpublished discourses 
may be inferred from the following part of the sermon which 
he delivered at the commencement of his pastoral labors. 

" The dignity of the minister's ofiice appears in the fact, that 
he is the instrument for supplying the spiritual wants of all 
classes of men. It is a great thing to labor for the mind, that 
priceless gem which God himself has created and adorned. 
It is a great thing to stir up thought, to arouse interest, to 
gratify taste. It is a great thing to reform the outward man, 
and make the principles of gospel love prevail in his conduct. 
It is a great thing to diffuse the leaven of peace and beauty 
through the whole mass of society, and make a paradise on 
earth. But oh, the soul, the soul ! how it transcends in value 



MEMOIR. 113 

all the interests of earth, and compared whh its nature and 
its destiny and its high behests, how poor are all the triumphs 
of intellect and taste, how weak are those efforts to adorn the 
outward, while the inner sanctuary remains untouched. The 
soul has diseases, and they must be healed. The soul has 
longings, and they must be gratified. The soul has wander- 
ings, and they must be checked. The soul has sorrows, and 
they must be stayed. The soul may die forever, and it must 
be clothed in the robes of eternal life. In the providence of 
God which places me here to-day, while I would not be un- 
faithful to the other parts of my calling, I desire to look upon 
every thing as inferior and subordinate, except the minister- 
ing to the immortal spirit. In all the variety of characters and 
conditions around me, I feel that there is not one to whom I 
have not some message, and for whom there is not in the gos- 
pel I preach a fit and full supply. Is there a Christian among 
my people who pants for a closer walk with God, whose soul 
disdains the unsubstantial vanities of the world, who cries out 
daily with ceaseless cravings, * O that I knew where I might 
find him,' to him am I sent, to be his guide and shepherd, to 
minister the food of God's \\ord, to brighten and animate his 
faith and hope for the future. Brother, we will commune to- 
gether of the love of Jesus, and the interests of the undying 
soul, we will take sweet counsel and walk to the house of 
God in company, till our Master call us to the upper room of 
his feast, to the perfect union of heaven. Are there any 
among this church who have left their first love, whose faith 
stumbles, whose hope has become dim, and the world binds 
them as with a magic spell to its deceitful charms. Wander- 
ers of the flock, I would call you back to the alcar of your 
baptism and your vows before angels and men, and light again 
the extinguished zeal, sometimes by the solemn denunciation 
of a ' woe upon them that are at ease in Zion,' sometimes in 
the winning invitation of the faithful, ' Come with us, and we 
will show you good.' Are there among you the hard-heart- 

10* 



114 



MEMOIR. 



ed, the men of the world, whom I shall learu to honor and 
respect and love only to be mere deeply convinced of their 
deplorable nakedness of soul ? O 1 my friends, by the sacred 
rights of conscience, by the precious interests of the church, 
by the vows of God, which must curse me forever if I prove 
recreant to my calling, I dare not shun to declare unto you 
the whole counsel of God. I cannot hide or extenuate your 
nature and character and condition. I cannot soften the de- 
mands of God, or smooth over the dreadful consequences of 
your impenitence. In all meekness and humility, in all ten- 
derness and friendship, yet with plainness and with strictness, 
J must beseech you, in Christ's stead, by the value you put 
upon your souls, by the love you bear to your minister, by 
the power of your corrupt example, by the mercies of God, 
by the terrors of hell. I must beseech you to come out from 
the world, and take your stand among the humble disciples 
of the Redeemer. Are there here any restless, dissatisfied 
spirits to whom the world is losing its charm, in whose bo- 
soms there is an achinor void which the old deliorhts cannot 
supply, who long to be numbered among the followers of Je- 
sus? Inquirers of the way to Zicn, to you, to you, I bring 
glad tidings of great joy. Lo ! Christ has died for your sins, 
yea and has risen again, as if to proclaim new life to your 
long dead spirits. O ye dry bones that begin to shake, hear 
the word of the Lord. Come forth from your entombment. 
Thrust aside the grave-clothes of sin. Arise, and live, and 
walk, and work, and it shall be well with you. And in those 
seasons of trial and sorrow which must bow the hearts of my 
people, whether the sadness of a general calamity brood as 
with raven wing over your dwellings, or one after another 
you come up to the house of God, with tottering footsteps 
and heads bowed down like a bulrush, and the weeds of 
mourning and the sighings of solitude to remind us that you 
are alone, you shall find in the gospel of Jesus a warm sym- 
pathy to lighten your sorrow, aiid elevated principles to con- 



MEMOIR. 115 

firm vour faith. The strain of comfort which it breathes, 
shall be, ' Come unto me, ye that are weary and heavy laden,' 
and the profound lesson it teaches, '' All things shall work to- 
gether for good to them that love God.' The gospel of Je- 
sus leads in life to that which is above life. It leads beyond 
life to heaven." 

In reviewing Mr. Homer's sermons, our chief regret is that 
he wrote them so rapidlv. He exchanged but three times 
after his ordination, and never preached extempore on the 
Sabbath. He was compelled therefore to write two dis- 
courses in a week, in some instances he wrote more. But a 
single written sermon in six days is labor enough for any man. 
Wise critics have recommiended that a minister write a crood 
discourse as soon as he can, and preach it when it is " about 
finished." If Saturday noon find him unprepared for the 
Sabbath, let him furnish his people with the best instruction 
he can command, either by an exchange or by an extempo- 
raneous effort. That good and finished sermon will benefit 
his own character, moral as well as mental, more than a score 
of careless and hurried homilies. It will give him more au- 
thority over his people, secure for them a juster balance of 
theolocrical truth, a higher standard of religious feelinof. It 
is by a thorough examination of some one doctrine, and by an 
accurate adjustment of its collateral topics, that the minister 
advances and causes his people to advance every month in 
spiritual power. When he is removed by death, the ser- 
mons which he has elaborated with so much care will re- 
tain a permanent value, and he will preach long after his 
voice is stilled. The editor of Massilon's Lent Sermons re- 
gards it as a prodigy that he finished a discourse in so 
short a time as ten or twelve days. This eminent preacher 
sometimes rewrote a single sermon fifteen or even twenty 
times. A distinguished scholar in our own land rewrote 
the most useful of his sermons thirteen or fourteen times, 



116 MEMOIR. 

and labored in connexion with a literary friend two whole 
days on as many sentences. A living divine, who has been 
called the prince of our pulpit orators, spent a fortnight on a 
single paragraph of one of his published sermons, and three 
months in elaborating another discourse, which has already 
accomplished more good than the four thousand sermons 
which were written by another of our pastors, at the rate of 
two a week. On the blank leaf of one of Dr. Griffin's man- 
uscripts it appeared that his discourse had been preached 
ninety times. Thus had it been touched and retouched, re- 
viewed and rewritten, until, so far as the author's power avail- 
ed, it was perfected. There is danger indeed of acquiring 
a morbid appetency for perfection, which will polish away all 
positive excellence, and refine into nothing every natural 
beauty. We have read of an Italian author who would whet 
and whet his knife till there was no steel left to make an edge. 
** Indeed," says Carlyle, ^^ in all things, writing or other, 
which a man engages in, there is the indispensablest beauty 
in knowing how to get done. A man frets himself to no pur- 
pose, he has not the sleight of the trade, he is not a crafts- 
man but an unfortunate borer and bungler, if he know not 
when to have done. Perfection is unattainable ; no carpen- 
ter ever made a mathematically right angle, in the world ; 
yet all carpenters know when it is right enough, and do not 
botch it and lose their wages in making it too right. Too 
much pains-taking speaks disease in one's mind as well as too 
little. The adroit, sound-minded man will endeavor to spend 
upon each business approximately what of pains it deserves ; 
and with a conscience void of remorse will dismiss it then." 

But Mr. Homer was not predisposed to this sickliness of 
taste. If he had concentrated upon seventeen sermons the 
energies which he devoted to thirty-four, he would not indeed 
have gratified his parish with so frequent ministrations, but 
would have raised, still higher than he did, the standard of a 
sermon, and would have made his posthumous influence more 



MEMOIR. 117 

extensive. His people however were idolatrously attached 
to him, and were intent on hearing him every Sabbath. 
Therefore he became unwilling to relieve himself by ex- 
changes with his brethren. He moreover loved his work, 
and chose in his hearty zeal to compress a great amount of 
it into a brief period. Though he was technically a student, 
and had not designed to pass his life in the pastoral relation, 
he began to doubt whether he could ever forego the pleasure 
of writing sermons. The more he wrote, the happier he be- 
came. About a fortnight before his last sickness he said in 
a letter, " Preaching grows upon me. It never tires nor palls. 
It appears to be the most glorious of all pursuits. If my 
heajth is spared, and God seems to bless my labors, I shall 
feel very differently about leaving the ministry from what I 
have felt. I do not know that I shall turn off from the liter- 
ary design which has occupied my thoucrhts for so many 
years. Still I cannot but feel that if I ever do leave the sa- 
cred office, for any other on earth, it will be taking a long 
stride downward." 

It deserves to be added in apolog)' for his rapid composi- 
tion, that Mr. Homer had been gathering the fruits of chris- 
tian experience for nearly fourteen years, and had accumula- 
ted the materials of his discourses long before he wrote them. 
They were the emanations of the character which he had 
been forming, and he could express with ease the trains of 
thought which had been familiar to him for vears. What- 
ever he did was done with celerity : this was his nature. The 
results therefore of his past religious meditations he recorded 
without the effort and delay which ministers often require. 
It may be that after he had gone round a certain circle of 
topics, he would have chosen to spend a longer time on every 
new theme. Every scholar has a certain class of subjects 
upon which he has perhaps unconsciously expended a pecu- 
liar deorree of care, and when these are exhausted he be- 
comes once more a novice. On some themes old men are 



118 MEMOIR. 

young and young men are old. We are apt to regard the 
efforts of a youthful preacher as the very beginnmgs of his 
work, as mere experiments ; but they are often the results of 
nearly all the wisdom which he will have acquired in matu- 
rer life. He may afterward discuss new topics with superior 
power, and may not, but on some topics his first sermons are 
his best. Some of our niost useful treatises, in theological 
as well as other literature, have been the productions of men 
under twenty-five years of age. There is a rare justness in 
the following criticism of Mr. Hazlitt : '* The late Mr. Opie 
remarked, that an artist often puts his best thoughts into his 
first works. His earliest efforts were the result of the study 
of all his former life, whereas his later and more mature per- 
formances, though perhaps more skilful and finished, con- 
tained only the gleanings of his after observation and experi- 



MR. homer's last DAYS. 

On the Sabbath after his ordination, Mr. Homer said to 
his people, " We live in a solemn world. We cannot take 
a step where sad realities do not stare us in the face. We 
cannot form a new tie without casting our thoughts forward 
to the death-pang that must sunder it. Amid the mutual re- 
joicings of our recent connexion, I involuntarily think of the 
pall and the shroud and the bier and the grave ; and I behold 
one and another and another, who now look up into my face 
and hear the sound of my voice, for whose cold remains I 
shall be called ere long to discharge the last sad offices ; and 
God only knows but that this people may bear me out to my 
burial. Sabbath after Sabbath, I must stand up here as a 
dying man before dying men. Yet, blessed be God, I preach 
a gospel which secures the great antidote to these ills, which 
enables us to look above and beyond them. And if my peo- 
ple will resolve this day to put themselves under my spiritual 



MEMOIR. 119 

guardianship, and heaven will bless the ministry which be- 
gins on my part in weakness and distrust, we may hush these 
dark forebodings, we may rest assured that death cannot 
weaken the tie now formed, we may look forward to a glad- 
some reunion where the sombre weeds of the funeral shall be 
exchanged for the white vestments of the marriage-feast, and 
the happy language of the pastor shall be, ^ Behold I and the 
people thou hast given me/ " 

On the New Year's Sabbath of his ministry, he preached 
from the text, '' This year thou shalt die," the same passage 
with which so many divines, and among them both the Ed- 
wardses, have commenced the pulpit services of the last year 
of their life. In this discourse he showed the probability 
that either himself or some of his hearers would be called to 
frilfil the prediction of the text. '' The night," he says, '•' is 
far spent, the day is at hand; some of us can almost dis- 
cern the first red streaks of the dawn. We are hastening on, 
we are hastening on to the brightness of an eternal day. 
' Let us therefore cast off the works of darkness and let us 
put on the armor of light.' " 

It is not to be understood that Mr. Homer had a presenti- 
ment of his early death. He had not. He was not given to 
such presentiments. Nor had his friends been fearful of 
such a calamity. They had not thought of him in such asso- 
ciations, and even now they cannot recall the freshness of his 
countenance and the elasticity of his manners, without feeling 
that after all they have been only dreaming of his death, and 
he is soon to appear again with some bright saying or with 
some new hope. It had not even occurred to their thoughts 
that the star would sink away into nothing, just as men were 
beorinnincr to turn their orlasses to it and examine it. 

When a Christian has toiled faithfully and successfully 
through a long life, he lies down upon the bed of death as the 
bed of rest. He has finished the work which was given him 
to do, and if by reason of strength his life should be further 



120 MEMOIR. 

prolonged, yet would his strength be labor and sorrow. He 
chooses to leave the world, that he may escape the weariness 
of a second childhood, and may commune again with the 
friends of his youth. His age is well rounded off, and death 
calls for his gratitude rather than resignation. But the sub- 
ject of this memoir had not been satiated nor disgusted with 
life, nor was he shut up to death as his only avenue to enjoy- 
ment. The hopes and the promises of youth were clustering 
around him, he had just begun to use the materials which he 
had amassed ; to die, therefore, as soon as he had ended the 
preliminaries of his chosen work, was not so much to leave 
the world as to be torn from it. He had but recently entered 
upon that state which is but a figure of the union between 
Christ and the church, and to go so soon from the compan- 
ionship which he had anticipated so long, was something to 
be submitted to rather than rejoiced in. His plans were defi- 
nitely formed for a life of study, he had numbered the mines 
of intellectual wealth which he was to explore, and he had 
every inducement to cry, ^' Cut me not down in the midst of 
my years, deprive me not of the residue of my days." 

His unremitted labors during his last year at Andover had 
somewhat enfeebled his frame, and should have induced him 
to defer his settlement in the ministry for several months. 
Emerging suddenly from the seclusion of a student into the 
duties of active life, he was more excited than he would have 
been if the transition had been more gradual, or if he had 
previously disciplined himself, as every clergyman ought to 
do, in some active business. The excitement was greater 
than he could sustain without a more healthful regimen of 
body than he was careful to practise. The labors of an ear- 
nest preacher and an anxious pastor cannot be united with 
those of a severe student, without a previous and careful pre- 
paration of the body as well as mind. This preparation Mr. 
Homer did not make, and here was '^ the beginning of the 
end." He felt a decrree of interest in his labors which his 



MEMOIR. 121 

physical system had not been disciplined to endure. He vis- 
ited the sick chamber with literal sickness of heart, and when 
called to attend a funeral, he felt as one personally bereaved. 
On the Sabbath morning he would rise before the sun and 
look out of his study-window, in the hope of seeing a clear 
sky. There were only six Sabbaths of his ministry on which 
he was favored with such a prospect. To him they were days 
of delight ; but the hail and the sleet and the snow sent a chill 
into his spirit. '* Again and again have I wrhten a sermon," 
he says, ^^ for Christians ; and many of them were prevented 
by the weather from hearing it. Then I have written for the 
impenitent, and those for w^hom I particularly designed my 
discourses did not come through the snow-banks to hear me. 
During my wedding journey, at the time of my ordination and 
through my whole ministry thus far, I have been persecuted 
by a storm." He was desirous of seeing an immediate influ- 
ence from every sermon, and was grieved if he did not see it. 
Time would have allayed the intensity of this desire, and 
sheathed the keen edge of the sympathetic nerve. But he 
died before the time. The truths which he uttered from the 
pulpit so absorbed his attention, that they often awaked him 
by night. Sometimes he would forget even to eat, until the 
studies of the day were closed, and in the evening would take 
that refreshment which he could not live without, but which 
he ought to have taken at an earlier hour. He had been 
crowding the winter with disproportioned labors, and was 
hoping to pass the more genial months of spring in visiting 
his parishioners and journeying among his friends. He did 
not dream that when the trees were blossoming and the time 
of the singing of birds had come, he should be walking in the 
paradise of God. 

Sad, sad is the reflection, that he did not listen to the re- 
monstrances of his friends, and endeavor to allay the zeal that 
was consuming him. Hitherto his books had been his only 
care, and that care was a pleasure, and every thing that inter- 

11 



122 MEMOIR. 

fered with their claims had been done for him by others ; now 
he w^as called to do every thing for himself But yesterday 
he w^as a pupil ; all at once he had become a teacher, and 
was invested with the most responsible office on earth. His 
responsibility was so new to him that it imparted a factitious 
strength to his system, and he looked upon the admonitions 
of his friends as needless. " Have no anxiety for m.e," he of- 
ten said, " for I am never sick. Every day is my m.ind be- 
coming more and more active, and my labors easier and eas- 
ier. I can write three discourses now more readily than I 
could write one a year ago, and instead of finding it difficult 
to preach, I find it difficult to refrain from preaching. Sub- 
jects of sermons, and plans for writing them, and thoughts 
for filling out those plans are thronging in upon me, till I know 
not what to do with them for their multitude.'^ He did not 
perceive that his mind was loosing itself from his bcdy, and 
was acting with the rapidity of a disencumbered spirit. He 
did not perceive that his physical state, as it predisposed him 
to a more fervid activity, was in the more peculiar need of 
rest. 

But during the first week of March he began to acknow- 
ledge what his friends had long seen, his increasing feeble- 
ness of body; and he promised that if they would allow him 
to write his two discourses during that week, he would forth- 
with relax the severity of his labors. He wrote his two ser- 
mons, performed certain parochial duties which would at 
any time have oppressed his spirit, and on Sabbath morning 
was again frowned upon by the storm that had so long haunt- 
ed him like a spectre, and cast a gloom over his labors in the 
pulpit. He was so feeble that he ought not to have left his room 
on that inclement morning, but he could not be persuaded to 
omit the service. He preached with the power of one who 
was uttering his last words, and administered the sacramental 
supper with unusual solemnity. At the close of his exercises 
in the afternoon he visited the sick bed of a literary friend, 



MEMOIR. 123 

who was ill the same state of delirium in which himself was 
destined soon to be. He was troubled in spirit that his friend 
was apparently so near the grave, and could receive no con- 
solation. But the wearied pastor had done all that he could 
do, had whispered in the ear of the wandering invalid, " Be 
of good cheer," and bidding farewell to the hope of ever 
speaking to him again, he returned to his lodgings disconso- 
late and spent. Now he was ready to relinquish his toils and 
reorain his lost vioror. But he had deferred his dutv too long. 
His repose came too late. His sick friend recovered. He 
himself was sinking into the same disease. 

On the evening of this Sabbath, the seventh of March, he 
was visited by his physician, and found to be in a state of 
great debility ; his brain and nervous system morbidly sensi- 
tive, and his digestive orcrans much deranged. The sensibil- 
ity of the cerebro-spinal system was soon allayed, but it re- 
turned after several days and was accompanied with despon- 
dency, a disinclination to converse, and a decided impression 
that he should never reorain his health. For three or four 
days he retained this impression in silence and in sorrow. 
He struggled with it alone, but did not reveal his fears, and 
never exhibited the slightest disposition to murmur. On the 
evening of the seventeenth, he called his physician to his bed- 
side and said that, havinor watched carefullv his feelino;s and 
the progress of his disorder, he was decidedly convinced that 
all was over with him for this world. *^ I am," he said, '^ a 
dying man. My end is near. My mind, at times, is bewil- 
dered and gone. It will shortly all be gone. I am incapa- 
ble of connected ideas, or continued thought upon any sub- 
ject for any length of time. I shall soon be senseless. I feel 
that my race is run. I am hovering near eternity. My dear 
friend, comfort, oh comfort my wife when I am gone. Say 
to my dear church, that I have endeavored to be faithful to 
my trust and to their souls. But I fear that I have come 
short, very far short of my duty. Had it pleased God, I should 



124 MEMOIR. 

have been happy to live an humble instrument in his hand of 
winning souls to my Saviour. It was my wish to have done 
some good in life. My heavenly Father however has decided 
otherwise. My hopes, my plans, my expectations will soon 
be closed in death.'' He was asked by his physician, ^^ How 
do you feel in prospect of a change of worlds?" He replied, 
*^ My mind is calm. I am going to the bosom of my God. 
Through Jesus Christ, my hope, my Saviour, I trust that I 
shall soon be one of the humble worshippers about his throne." 
On the morning of the eighteenth, the evil that he had 
feared came upon him. He had often expressed his dread 
of insanity. He trembled, he said, lest when his judgment 
had lost its controlling power, he should say something or do 
something to the dishonor of religion. His mind now be- 
came like a broken harp, which after the strings are severed 
will send forth at times a sweet and strange music. There 
were vibrations of his pious feeling which were not stilled 
even by insanity. In his mental wanderings he went over 
and over the scenes of his ministry, and lingered with pecu- 
liar fondness amid the duties of his last Sabbath. He would 
often utter fragments of sermons to his people, would offer 
an earnest prayer as if he were still leading their public de- 
votions, and was several times engaged in distributing the 
sacramental emblems. He talked of a speedy revival of reli- 
gion which his people were to enjoy, and of a protracted 
meeting in which all his hearers were to be converted. *^ But 
I am going," he says, ^^ to banquet with the angels." ^' It 
seems to me," said one of his watchers, who had spent the 
night in listening to his airy fancies, '* it seems to me that I 
shall never look upon the world as I have looked upon it, for 
I have been all night long in company with the angels ;" so 
frequent had been the converse of the dying pastor with the 
pure spirits of heaven. There were lucid intervals during 
his delirium, but they were intervals of a moment. He would 
begin some soothing remark, but his reason would vanish ere 



MEMOIR. 125 

he had closed it. A few fragments of sentences are preserv- 
ed, which like the fragments of a Grecian pillar indicate the 
chasteaess of what is lost. •• Oh I if it were not for that 
sweet assurance," — and then his mind darted back behind 
the cloud. '' By the preciousness of the love of Jesus,'' — 
and then he lost himself amid scenes of terror. '' In the 
morning,*' he said, as the rays of the sun beamed upon him, 
*• in the morning how beautiful, and at night how horrible." — 
'^ I pray that I may never murmur against the will of God 
even in my acutest pains." 

On the Saturday preceding his death, there was an inter- 
val of fifteen minutes in which he seemed entirely rational. 
He asked his wife if she knew him. She answered, " Yes." 
He smiled and said in a whisper, for he was too feeble to 
speak aloud, '' I thought I was too near eternity for even you 
to know me, I have been thinking how much happiness we 
have enjoyed by our own fireside, and it seems mysterious 
that we should be separated so soon. I have felt at times, 
that after all, God would spare me to you ; but I feel now 
that he will take me away." She said to him, ^^ I hope that 
you will still recover." '^ No," he replied, '' I shall die ;" 
and then pausincr in apparent meditation upon the pardoning 
love of Jesus, he added, '• With that blessed assurance I am 
going home, never to see you again in this world." He de- 
sired to say more, but was persuaded to desist, and these 
were the last words which he was conscious of utterino^. He 
said much in his subsequent delirium, and just before he lost 
all {>ower of connected speech he sent a request to his church, 
that they should be faithful to the souls of dying men. This 
was his last message. Here was his ruling passion. 

When his disease had reached an alarming crisis, his med- 
ical friend remained with him nearly all the time by day and 
night. Four consulting physicians were called in from South 
Berwick, Dover, Exeter and Boston. Prayers were offered 
for him by several private circles convened for the purpose 

11* 



126 MEMOIR. 

in his own parish and his native city, at the daily morning 
prayer-meeting at Park-street church in Boston, and at the 
several churches of South Berwick on the Sabbath preceding 
his death. When the preacher in his own pulpit alluded to 
him, there was an audible movement throughout the congre- 
gation, and the sobbings of his people evinced the intensity 
of their grief. ^^ Whoever," says one of his parishioners, 
^^ has seen a circle of mourners assembled at the bedside of 
a friend about to take his final departure, may have an idea 
of the sadness and sorrow depicted on the countenances of 
the people as they sat in the church ; for all felt in very truth 
as if the father of the household were soon to be removed." 
For a day or two before his death, groups of men were seen 
in the street waiting for some messenger who might bring 
the last report from the sick chamber. A gentleman who 
had but recently fixed his residence in the village says, ^^ Busi- 
ness was in a degree suspended, the usual courtesies to stran- 
gers were forgotten. Every person seemed to be absorbed 
in the calamity that threatened the parish. Men, women 
and children, from all parts of the town and from all religious 
societies indiscriminately, came in almost unbroken succes- 
sion to inquire concerning the dying pastor. Many of them 
would linger about his lodgings after they had learned all that 
could be learned, and several seated themselves in different 
parts of the house and remained for hours in one posture 
without uttering a word. There was an unusual sobriety of 
deportment among the students of the academy. By aban- 
doning their play, and by the stillness with which they left 
the school-room for their homes they showed that their 
thoughts were in the room of the dying. These and similar 
indications were such as a stranger could not fail to notice."^ 

^ The preceding facts were communicated by Mr. Horace HalJ, a 
recent member of Andover Theological Seminary. He began to 
write an account of these last scenes, but died before he fmished it. 
He was attacked with the same disease which proved fatal to Mr. Ho- 



MEMOIR. 127 

Durincr the niorht of the Sabbath Mr. Homer's disease as- 
sumed a more alarminor form. Conaestion of the brain had 
passed rapidly into inflammation and effusion. The face be- 
came changed, the strength failed, and the powers of life 
were becomincr feebler and feebler. 

On Monday, the twenty-second of March, it was evident 
that his hour had come. Several of his parishioners were 
gathered around his bed, uttering no words, but unable to re- 
press their sighs. His father was standing near with one 
hand raised toward heaven, and in the attitude of a man look- 
ing upward for the strength that none but Jehovah can impart. 
About noon those who had been watching for every change 
of symptom in the wasted frame, began to discover signs of 
returning consciousness. ^^ If you know me press my hand," 
were the last words spoken to him by one who longed for 
another token of recognition. He quickly complied, and his 
continued pressure showed that his love was stronger than 
death. Five minutes afterward he fell asleep, and his soul 
awoke to an activity that shall never cease. 

When death had thus finished its silent work, the mourn- 
ers retired to an adjoining room and kneeled before the 
throne of him who had smitten them. They had no repining 
thoughts, but felt that sinking of nature which can be staid 
only at the altar of devotion. 

*' It was on Monday morning," says a clergyman in the vi- 
cinity of South Berwick, " that I rode over to see my depart- 
ing friend. Before I reached the house over which so dark 
a cloud was hanging, I met one of his parishioners whom I 
knew to be a man of rare strength of character and firmness 

mer and died in the same room, on the same coucli, at about the same 
age, with the same painful delirium, and in less than a year from tlie 
same time. He went to South Berwick for the purpose of teaching 
the academy, and in the Iiope of enjoying the society of Mr. Homer. 
JIo arrived in season to have a few hours of intercourse with the 
christian scholar who was to die in a few days, and whom lie himself 
was to follow in a few months. 



128 MEMOIR. 

of nerve. I inquired of him at once respecting his minister ; 
* most gone' was all that he could say, and we parted. When 
the dreaded event had transpired, I went to the house of 
another parishioner, and after the usual civilities I sat with 
the family ten or fifteen minutes without their saying a word. 
The general feeling was too deep to be expressed. No one 
spoke in the street except in low tones." 

Wednesday was the day of the funeral. A large concourse 
assembled at the church from all neighborhoods and from all 
the religious denominations in the town. Eighteen clergy- 
men were present. The pulpit, the orchestra and the organ 
were hung in black. '* I can only say of the whole scene," 
writes one who witnessed the same, '^ it was overwhelming." 

One of Mr. Homer's favorite hymns, '^ There is an hour of 
peaceful rest," was sung to one of his favorite tunes. He 
had himself recited and sung the stanzas so often, that he 
seems to have selected them for his funeral dirge. Rev. Mr. 
Young of Dover offered the prayer. Four months previous, 
he had given the Right Hand of Fellowship to his friend, and 
now his own emotion was such as sometimes to check his ut- 
terance, and the sobs of the audience were often so loud as 
to make his words inaudible. Professor Edwards of Andover 
preached the sermon. It was one which Mr. Homer had lis- 
tened to eighteen months before at Andover, and had spoken 
of with the interest of a man who was preparing to have it re- 
peated at his burial. The text was 1 Corinthians 15: 53, 
^* For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mor- 
tal must put on immortality." Rev. Mr. Holt of Portsmouth, 
w^ho had recently offered the ordaining prayer, now gave the 
funeral address. He contrasted the mental associations of 
the minister bereft of his reason, and still repeating the mes- 
sages of christian love, with the associations of the mere 
scholar or man of business ; with the *' tete tfarmee^^ of the 
warrior as he died amid the raging of the elements. 

When these exercises were closed, the parishioners took 



MEMOIR. 1-29 

one more view of the inanimate form, and then followed it in 
procession to the limits of the village. There they parted 
from it and returned to their homes as sheep without a shep- 
herd. 

Under the care of two of the most respectable inhabitants 
of South Berwick, the body was conveyed to Boston. On 
the afternoon of the next day (Thursday), about three hun- 
dred persons assembled in the vestry of Park-street church to 
join in a religious service preparatory to the entombment. 
^' Never,'' says the pastor of the church, '^ have I witnessed 
the manifestation of a deeper sympathy. All hearts appeared 
smitten, and every spirit crushed under the visitation of the 
Almighty." Several clergymen of the city were present, and 
three of them officiated in the mournful exercises, reading ap- 
propriate hymns and Scriptures, offering prayers to God and 
addressinor the assemblv. " At lenorth," writes a former com- 
panion of the departed, ^' the crowds of sympathizing friends, 
after lingering a moment in groups around the coffin, gradu- 
ally withdrew and the church was almost deserted. Out of 
Mr. Homer's very large circle of literary friends, many of 
whom had not yet heard of his death, there were only five 
who now stood together for their last lingering look. It was 
hard to part even with the clay, that had been animated by 
such a spirit. The expression of sharp pain had passed from 
the features, there was a repose upon the countenance, and 
the fixed gaze of a moment brought back to the lips their 
natural smile. We turned away from the loved remains, and 
the closinor of the coffin-lid told us that the face of our friend 
was hid forever from our eyes. We followed the bearers in- 
to the open air, and then into the aisle of the dead, — and 
stood, silent and sad, until the coffm disappeared within the 
tomb." 

On the Sabbath succeeding the funeral. Rev. Mr. Aiken 
of Park-street church delineated the character of the deceas- 



130 MEMOIR. 

ed in a sermon from Psalm 116: 15, '^ Precious in the sight of 
the Lord is the death of his saints." Discourses in reference 
to the event were preached on the same day by Professor 
Emerson at Andover Theological Seminary, and by several 
members of the Association with which Mr. Homer had been 
connected. A few Sabbaths afterward his death was appro- 
priately noticed in the Baptist church at South Berwick. 
Even then, the lamentation of the audience resembled that 
which was heard at his funeral. At a still later period, a 
eulogy was pronounced upon him in the Episcopal chapel 
near the village where he had labored, and it was still obvi- 
ous that the fountains of tears had not been dried up. Dif- 
ferent notices of his character appeared in several of our reli- 
gious and political journals, and the grief which is yet felt 
for his death bears witness to the good impressions of his life. 
It is the wish of some of his friends that his body had been 
laid in the burial-ground of his parish, where a broken shaft 
might rise as an emblem of the life that was so abruptly clo- 
sed. But perhaps it is meet that he should lie near the bap- 
tismal font where he was consecrated to the God of his fa- 
thers, and hard by the altar where he devoted himself to the 
cause for which he died. All this however is of inferior mo- 
ment ; for whether he is to rise encircled by the people of 
his charge or by the friends of his youth, he will come forth, 
we trust, clothed in a white robe and with a palm-branch in 
his hand. 

Twenty-four years and less than two months made up the 
whole period of his life. It has been said, that the very cir- 
cumstance of his untimely death, may give him a better pos- 
thumous influence than he would have exerted if he had out- 
lived the novelty of his ministrations. It was one of his own 
favorite ideas, that a youthful minister, who leaves a pure 
memory to be embalmed in the hearts of survivors, can enlist 
more sympathy for the truth by preaching from the grave, 



MEMOIR. 131 

than he could have attracted by spending a long life in the 
pulpit. 1 It may be true that, in some respects, the useful- 
ness of our friend is increased by the fact that his life has 
been broken off, but in other respects it is lessened. His 
mind was not a reservoir that had been exhausted, but a foun- 
tain that would have continued to flow. It is said that death 
is gain to him and by his liveliness of sensibility he is well fit- 
ted for high enjoyment in heaven. But we never grieve for 
the dead who die in the Lord ; we weep for ourselves only 
and for our children. It is said that he was ill prepared to 
endure the jarrings of the church in her militant condition, 
and perhaps would have turned away in disgust from public 
life. But time, which modifies all things, would have blunt- 
ed the keenness of his sensibility, and the pain which he would 
have received from one source would be more than balanced 
by the pleasures that would have come in from other sources. 
From all such topics of consolation we turn away in sickness 
of heart, and find no repose until we bow down before the 
Sovereign who has infinite counsels, and all of them infinitely 
wise. He had reasons for blighting our hopes, and they were 
such reasons as we are too weak to comprehend. He requi- 
red perhaps a new ornament for some niche in the temple 
above, and he took what seemed unto him good. There is 
no accomplishment of our friend, no treasure of ancient or 
of modern lore, no aptness for investigation, no refinement of 
sensibility, no grace of language or of thought, but has al- 
ready been combined with the essential character of the soul, 
and will continue to transmit its influence long after tongues 
have ceased, and knowledge in its earthly form has vanished 
away. Then let us fall in reverence before that august Be- 
ing who disappointeth our hopes, and casteth down our high 
imaginations. In his view the longest life is but one day, and 
the shortest is a thousand years. He sends us forth on a sol- 
emn mission, and be our death sooner or later, we are bound 



* See his Essay on the rosthumoiis Tower of the Pulpit. 



132 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 

to leave behind us some memorial of good. Every moment 
are our hearts " beating their funeral marches to the grave;" 
but as we go onward we may, if we will, look upward, and 
believe where we do not know, and hope where we cannot 
believe, and submit where we dare not hope. The voice 
from the tomb is, that we be prepared to live so long as we 
are called to labor, and willing to die when the time of our 
release shall come ; rejoicing to linger on the earth, which 
is after all so goodly to look upon, and choosing rather to de- 
part and to be present with the Lord. 



APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 

NOTE A. p. 96. 

The following are the plans of the foar sermons which Mr. Homer 
wrote, as parts of a series of discourses on the Divine Attributes. 
The first two were designed to be introductory to the series. 

Sermon I. — Obstacles to our progress ix religious knowledge. 
2 Tim. 3: 7, — Ever learning and never able to come to the knowledge 
of the truth. 

The object of this sermon is to consider some of the more common 
obstacles to the acquisition of religious truth. Among these may be 
specified first, incorrect apprehensions of the kind of evidence by which 
religious truth is to be established ; secondly, an unwillingness to ad- 
mit that there are mysteries in religion which cannot be explained; 
thirdly, an unwillingness to look at truth as a symmetrical system ; 
fourthly, a disposition to conduct our inquiries under other influences 
than those of love to the truth, and reverence for its Author : fifthlj^, 
a disposition to study truth speculatively ratlier than practically. 

But after all these obstacles have been overcome, truth is a jewel 
not easily gained \ it is a friend jealous of its claims, sparing of its fa- 
vors. The greatest discoverer in natural science described himself as 



APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 133 

only collecting the pebbles on an illimitable shore ; and the student of 
God's eternal mind must make a still more humiliating comparison 
between his own poor attainments and the infinitude of knowledge 
that lies beyond. Yet, praised be God, if the field is immense, there 
is an eternity for its cultivation. The sincere inquirer may often 
cast his eye forward into a new and blessed sphere of discovery, where 
the studies commenced in weakness and in ignorance here shall be 
prosecuted with new and unobstructed faculties forever. " Now we 
see throuD-h a class darklv. Then face to face. Here we know in 
part, we prophesy in part. There that which is perfect shall come, 
and that which is in part shall be done away." 



Sermon II. — Sources of our knowledge of God. Acts 18: 27, — 
That they should seek the Lord if haply they might feel after him and 
find him^ though he he not far from every one of us. 

The object of this discourse is to consider the Sources of our Know- 
ledge of God. 

The first source mentioned is, our own moral nature. There was 
fabled to be a mirror in a temple in ancient Arcadia which gave back 
to him who looked into it, not the reflection of his own face but of the 
Deity whom he worshipped. Such a mirror is every man's soul. 
(a) The idea of God is essentially involved in the operations of con- 
science, (b) The instinctive desires of the soul impel us to believe in 
the existence and superiority of a God. (c) The sentiments of piety 
lead most clearly and surely to the knowledge of him who is their 
great object. 

The second source of our knowledge of God is found in his works. 
The reasoning from effect to cause is here admitted to be valid, but is 
considered inferior to the reasoning that is founded on our moral nature. 

The third source of our knowledge of God is the Bible. This book 
confirms what the unaided reason discovers, and reveals some truths 
which otherwise would have remained unknown to us. 



Sermon III. — Contrast between the Power of God and that 
OF Man. Psalm 62 : 11, — Power helongeth unto God. 

The object of this discourse is to show in what respects the power 
of God differs in kind, rather than degree, from the power of man. 

It does not diifer in all respects. — The power of God is no more ade- 
quate than that of man to perform things which are in their own na- 

13 



134 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 

ture impossible. — The povrer of God, like that of man, does not al- 
ways work without instruments and means. — It is not chiefly in the 
ability to perfonu a miracle that the superiority of divine to human 
power is manifest ; for God exerts greater might in creatino- a uni- 
verse and establishing its laws, than in suspendina- the action of those 
laws for a season. "Is not the rising of some small seeds," says an 
aid writer, " with a multiplication of their numerous posterity, an effect 
of as great a power as our Saviour's feeding many thousands with a 
few loaves by a secret augmentation of them ? Is not the chemical 
producing of so pleasant and delicious a fruit as the grape, from a dry 
earth and insipid rain and a sour vine, as admirable a token of divine 
power as our Saviour's turning water into wine .^" 

But there are particulars in which the power of God differs from 
that of man essentially, in kind as well as degree. First, it is unde- 
rived; secondly, it is creative; thirdly.it operates without fatigue; 
fourthly, it is independent of the relations of space and time ; fifthly, 
it can operate directly and irresistibly upon spirit, as well as matter. 

The preceding discussion suggests, first, that the purposes of God 
can never be thwarted; secondly, that the friendship of so powerful a 
being is inconceivably desirable; and thirdly, that the resources of 
wrath possessed by infinite power are the proper objects of awe and 
fear. 

Sermon IV. — Eter>'ity of God. Exodus 3: 14, — .ind God said unto 
Moses, I am that I am. 

The object of this discourse is, first, to prove the Eternity of God ; 
gecondly, to show the connection between the Divine Eternity and 
certain other theological truths ; and thirdly, to develop the practical 
lessons which are taught by this attribute. 

I. Proof of God's Eternity. This attribute seems indispensable to 
the perfection of the Being whom we instinctively believe to be the 
perfect God. But, first, he exists without beginning, for (a) he can- 
not have created himself, and (b) he cannot have been created by 
another being, for in that case the being who created him would be 
the God whose eternity we are attempting to prove. Secondly, Gods 
existence must be without en?, for (a) he can have no reason for ter- 
minating his own existence, and (b) there can exist no other being 
who may terminate it, for in that case the being who could destroy 
would be the more powerful, and therefore tJie God whose eternity 
we are considering. Thirdly, the Scriptures declare that God is 
eternal. 



APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR, 135 

II. Connection of the truth that God is eternal with certain other 
theological truths. 

First, the Eternity of God is indissolublj connected with his immu- 
tability. The doctrine of his immutability is not disproved (a) by the 
passages of Scripture which describe him as repenting, nor (b) by the 
fact that he changes his treatment of individuals and nations as their 
circumstances change, nor (c) by the fact that he is influenced by 
prayer. Secondly, the Eternity of God as it is revealed in the Scrip- 
tures affords ground for an inference that Christ is divine. Thirdly, 
it reflects light on our ovrn immortality. 

III. Practical lessons taught by the doctrine. 

First, God is not to be described by any human analogies. We 
should not reason concerning him as subject to the relations either of 
time or space. Secondly, we learn from this doctrine a lesson of 
faith and hope concerning the fulfilment of long delayed promises. 
Thirdly, it is a terrible thing to sin against the eternal God. 



NOTE B, p. £6. 

Of Mr. Homer's historical sermons two are contained in the present 
volume. A third was prepared for publicati:>n, but for want of space 
is not inserted. It is a highly graphic discourse on the Character and 
Conduct of Balaam. The fourth contains a history of the institution 
of the Lord's Supper, and was delivered on the morning of the last 
Sabbath on which he ever preached. It formed part of a double ser- 
mon, which was designed to be preparatory to the administration of 
the sacramental feast. He closed the sermon in the afternoon with 
the following appeal to those who were soon to leave the sanctuary, 
while the church were gathering around the table of their Lord. The 
appeal may be interesting as it contains the last words which Mr. Ho- 
mer ever wrote for the pulpit, and immediately preceded the last 
communion service in which he ever engaged on earth. 

" Finally, with earnest affection we invite all who are present to tarry 
with us and view the scene. We deem it a hard thing to bless the 
congregation, that they may turn their backs upon a feast that is 
spread for them. Rather would we have them pause and listen to its 
fond invitation. Guilt-stricken spirit, it has a voice for thee : ' Come 
to the fountain.' Man of the world grasping afler earthly treasures, 
it has a voice for thee : ' Come, buy wine and milk without money 
and without price.' Bereaved and desolate one, it has a voice for 



136 APPENDIX TO THE MEMOIR. 

thee : * Come unto me thou heavy laden, and 1 will give thee rest.' 
To each and to all it utters its message, — ' Come.' Above all to the 
baptized children of this church, the members of Christ's body, if not 
the communicants at his table, does it address its urgent entreaty. 
And as it warns them not to think lightly of the table where parental 
faith is partaking of the emblems, it seems to utter again that sweet 
and blessed assurance, ' Suffer little children to come unto me and 
forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.' Oh how 
happy should we be if the close of our service to-day and each sacra- 
mental Sabbath should witness no separation ; if there were none here 
to crave a blessing as they hurry away from the communion of saints. 
But happier still, if the invitation might be welcomed in its deepest 
purport, if a few communions more might gather us all close to the 
table, in happy waiting for the time when our Lord himself shall 
come. 

' Sweet, awful hour ! the only sound 
One gentle footstep gliding round, 
Offering by turns on Jesus' part 
The cross to every hand and heart. 

Refresh us Lord to hold it fast. 
And when thy veil is drawn at last, 
Let us depart where shadows cease. 
With words of blessing and of peace.' " 



LITERARY ADDRESSES. 



12* 



The first of the following Articles is the Essay on the Posthumous 
Power of the Pulpit, with which Mr. Homer closed the exercises of 
his class at the thirty-second Anniversary of Andover Theological 
Seminary. The second is an Oration on the Dramatic Element in 
Pulpit Orator}', pronounced before the Porter Rhetorical Society in 
Andover Theological Institution, on Monday, August 31, 1S40. See 
page 51 of the Memoir. These two Addresses and the Sermons which 
follow them are arranged, with a single exception, according to the 
order of time in which they were written. 



LITERARY ADDRESSES, 



ESSAY ON THE POSTHUMOUS POWER OF THE 

PULPIT.^ 

It is one criterion of the value of the human soul, that 
such a price has been paid for its redemption. It would be 
a just estimate of the worth of the mind, did we measure it 
by the toils and sacrifices which in all ages have been en- 
dured for its advancement. The principle of vicarious suf- 
fering extends beyond that atoning cross which is its chief de- 
velopment. It pervades all history. It connects itself indis- 
solubly with the progress of man. The world is one great 
altar of sacrifice to which all minds have contributed their 
offerings. One who stands on the eminences of the present, 
may look down on the long period of the past and say, The 
great ones of other ages have toiled for me, and I have en- 

* Rev. Mr. Aiken, of Boston, in the discourse which is referred to 
on the 129th page of the Memoir, remarked, '^ Had Mr. Homer look- 
ed into the future with prophetic eye, he could scarcely have uttered 
sentiments more applicable to his own case, than the following, which 
fell from his lips on occasion of his leaving the Theological Seminary 
at their last Anniversary. ' The preacher, who casts his eye far 
down the lapse of ages into the very bosom of that eternity where 
time shall almost be forgotten, such a one will make his life a life^ 
short though it be, and will count its days by labors and its years by 
fruits. In the great harvest the question shall be not hoio long., but 
how much. We shall all be there, these venerable laborers from the 
vineyard, and those who go down to their graves youthful and 
Btronor.' " 



140 THE POSTHUMOUS POWER 

tered into their harvest. In me may be centering all the 
sacrifices and labors ever endured for learning and for truth. 
I stood by the pile of Polycarp, or studied in the cloister of Au- 
gustine, or heard Luther thunder from the old high pulpit, or 
sat through the second hour-glass of Mather's long discourse, 
because for me, the martyr and the monk, the reformer and 
the puritan have lived and labored and died. So impressed 
were some of the old theologians with this connexion between 
the present and the past, that they fastened on Adam's pos- 
terity an identity with his person and his crime, and crowded 
the whole family of man into the very garden where they 
were doomed to sinfulness and to wo. 

Prominent among the almoners of this posthumous power 
is the pulpit. The preacher is laboring for the future, for 
eternity. Death or the sure current of time often bears him 
onward to a sphere of action too vast for life. Perhaps he is 
doomed like all great minds to the misfortune of outstripping 
the tardy age by a precocious growth. Time will be faithful 
in bringing round the hour of his recompense, when death 
shall arrest his progress and allow him to be overtaken and 
honored by a slow-moving world. Perhaps he toils in a 
sphere of slender opportunities. Death will disentangle the 
spirit from time and space, the present barriers of its influence, 
und make it cross oceans, and it may be pervade the earth. 
Perhaps he is cut off from the midst of brilliant and success- 
ful exertion. Death by its startling suddenness will so quick- 
en his power, that it shall surpass the living voice. Milton 
was reviled by his contemporaries as a ^' black mouthed Zoi- 
lus," '* a profane and lascivious poetaster ;" but how soon did 
posterity gather around his bier, and the tribute to the de- 
spised dreamer became the worship of a prophet indeed. 
The classical and learned discourses of Jeremy Taylor may 
have been lost to the servants and children of Lord Carberry 
to whom they were first preached. But the light then kin- 
dled at Golden Grove, among the peasantry of Wales, was 



OF THE PULPIT. 141 

destined to be one of the altar fires of the British pulpit, and 
for ages to come the treasures collected for that young and 
illiterate audience shall be the wealth of scholars. There 
are some present who mourned the premature extinction of 
that orraceful luminary which shed its mild lidit on the 
churches of our neighboring city, in the hour of their dark- 
ness and peril. But how much more may have been accom- 
plished by the spirit of the youthful Huntington, moving amid 
those churches in the quickened memory of his few first fruits, 
than if he had lived till now, and had come up here to-day, 
with white head and venerable mien to receive our homaore. 
And through the whole history of the past, how much more 
may such minds have accomplished by this invisible transmi- 
gration of their power, than if they had continued until now 
to animate their mortal frames, walking among men with all 
the hindrances of direct communion, and pent up within the 
close walls of an earthly tabernacle. How wise is that Prov- 
idence by which the world is not left to stand still and grow 
old, but age follows age and generation comes to the relief of 
generation in bearing on the gathered resources of the past, 
and we of the present enter into our work like those Spanish 
princes who lived and reveled and reigned in the cemeteries 
of their ancestors and over their very dust. 

The preacher must be sensible through his whole ministry 
of his own fellowship with the past. In his study he is sur- 
rounded by a host of these invisible spirits, not merely as 
they stand embedded in parchment within his library, but as 
with real presence they touch the chords of feeling, or move 
the springs of intellect, or guide the glowing pen. In the pul- 
pit they stand by his side to animate his action or to point his 
language, and sometimes they whisper the words of ancient 
piety after its spirit is gone. " The connnon-places of pray- 
ers and of sermons," suggests a late eccentric writer, '^ are 
each the select expression of some stricken or jubilant soul, 



142 THE POSTHUMOUS POWER 

but now, like the zodiac of Denderah and the astronomical 
monuments of the Hindoos, they do but mark the height to 
which the waters once rose." Should some old puritan be 
summoned from his grave to visit the churches that have 
swerved most from his fondly-cherished standards, he might 
wonder to find a worship so goodly amid the very ruins of his 
faith: where filial affection has graved on the memory and 
stereotyped in the usage the phrases that are orthodox and 
old. 

The people also as well as their spiritual teachers, feel the 
posthumous power of the pulpit. In that great analysis which 
shall one day be made of the world's history, the influence of 
the pastor will stand forth as one chief element which has 
formed and modified society. The elevation of his office, the 
dignity of his pursuits, the solemn scenes where he mingles 
with men, all combine to invest his person with a mystery 
which throws far and wide a hallowing influence. When he 
dies, the remembrances of his example and counsel are often 
gathered as the relics of a master spirit, and the word that drop- 
ped from his lips almost unconsciously and long ago, will be liv- 
ing and workincr when the voice is hushed. There is a beauti- 
ful village of New England from which Whitefield was driven 
with such rancorous abuse, that he shook off the dust of his 
teet and proclaimed that the Spirit of God should not visit that 
spot, till the last of those persecutors was dead. The good 
man's curse had a fearful power in it, though he was not di- 
vinely armed with the prophet's sword. A consciousness of 
desertion paralyzed the energies of that church ; for nearly a 
century it was nurtured on the unwholesome food of a strange 
doctrine, in the very garden of natural loveliness it sat like a 
heath in the desert upon which there could be no rain, and 
not till that whole generation had passed from the earth did 
Zion appear there in her beauty and strength. 

It is the sentiment of an American theologian, one who 



OF THE PULPIT. 143 

has himself lived to be spoken of and adniired a? other men 
are after death, *' Preach for posterity." It cannot be deni- 
ed that some preachers live too exclusively in the future. 
Their plans are for prospective rather than for immediate 
usefulness. They elaborate for after ages, and depend too 
little upon the living voice, and the glorious consciousness of 
doing noic. They step to dry up the fluids o^ present vitali- 
ty, that they may embalm themselves as mummies for pos- 
terity. Yet while the preacher should strive chiefly to act 
in the living present, he should often draw his bow at a ven- 
ture, and with unwonted tension, that it may reach within 
the veil oi the great hereafter. The sermons that have cost 
days and nights of mental wrestling are those that will speak 
with deep-voiced power to the future. Though they pass by 
like a forgotten dream, the day shall come when those great 
elements of thought they suggest, shall be summoned to their 
work. They will live and act in those periods of mental ex- 
igency, when the memories o\ the past hear a resurrection 
trumpet, and come forth from their graves. That preacher 
who would be immortal, must turn off occasionally from the 
efforts which sweep over the people the waves of temporary 
excitement, and brace himself for those cool researches and 
those mighty labors which strike so deep that not a ripple is 
seen on the surface. 

The preacher who would be felt and acknowledged after 
death should cultivate individuality of influence. The men 
who are remembered as leaders and formers of mind have 
stood out with personal distinctness among the mass, and 
have had a character of their own to stamp upon the world. 
And the preacher should see to it that his own idiosyncrasy 
be prominent amid the elements which he must derive from 
without. He should cultivate that portion which God and 
nature have assigned to him, not burying his identity under 
the garb of a servile imitation, but ever striving to be him- 



144 THE POSTHUMOUS 

self. If he be but the patchwork from admired models, he 
covers over the image which his Creator enstamped upon 
him, and posterity w^ill never distinguish his features in the 
indiscriminate mass. He becomes but a new channel for 
fountains that have long been open, instead of sending forth 
from the depths of his own original nature a full current of 
good influences to mankind. 

It becomes the preacher to watch also with sedulous jeal- 
ousy the moral and religious impressions which he leaves up- 
on others. ^^ If a minister," says Dr. Scott, *^ go to the verge 
of a precipice, his people will be sure to go over." The cor- 
rupt doctrine, the impure example will be working its silent 
work, long after the hand that started it has crumbled into 
dust. There is a certain disease which seems to stay its pro- 
gress after it has destroyed the life of its victims, so that those 
who look into their coffins for months after they are buried 
will find the dead in the freshness of their first entomb- 
ment. Sometimes a whole family will follow each other with 
strange rapidity into the embraces of this wasting foe, and 
there is a vulgar but terrible tradition, that the dead sustain 
the appearance of vitality by preying upon the life of surviv- 
ing friends. The dead one comes in to touch with skinny 
fingers the food they eat, to taint with corrupted lungs the 
air they breathe, to press them in a close embrace, till they 
are won to his own ghastly fellowship. And just such is the 
power of a diseased influence from the pulpit. It must live 
long after the preacher is dead. It must stalk with fearful 
contagion through the paths of his corrupting walk. It must 
brood as with raven-wing over the altar where he proclaimed 
his pestilent doctrines. It must gather its victims from the 
lambs of his own flock, and poison the famished ones that 
cried at his table for food. Sometimes it may fix its viper- 
fangs in the very heart of the community and reduce the 
whole region to the loathsomeness of death. 



POWER OF THE PULPIT. 145 

Finally, the preacher should cultivate a habit of living 
above, and independently of the bondage of time, or death. 
" We cannot deceive God and nature," says an old writer, "for 
a coffin is a coffin, though it be covered with a pompous veil ;; 
and the minutes of our time strike on, and are counted by 
angels, till the period comes, which must give warning to all 
the neighbors that thou art dead. And if our death can be 
put off a little longer, what advantage can it be in the ac- 
counts of nature and felicity. They that three thousand 
years agone died unwillingly, and stopped death two days or 
staid it a week — -what is their gain — where is that week?'^ 
And the preacher who casts his eye far down the lapse of 
years, into the very bosom of that eternity where time shall 
almost be forgotten — such a one will make his life a life, 
short though it be, and will count its days by labors, and its 
years by fruits. In that great harvest, the question asked 
shall be, not how long, but how much. We shall all be there 
— these venerable laborers from the vineyard, and those who 
go down to their graves youthful and strong. The differences 
of age and station shall then be forgotten, when each shall have 
placed in his hand and before his eye that golden chain which 
connects him with the whole brotherhood of being. And 
there shall be the long line of our spiritual descendants, like 
jewels that pave the eternal vista. Though they stand not 
by our death-beds, like those old philosophers, to inhale our 
spirits, we shall feel our own warm breath coming back upon 
us, and shall discern our own lineaments as in a mirror. 
Though they seek not in the spirit of that ancient affection, 
to place their burial-urns close to ours, or to mingle their ash- 
es with our own, long before deposited, they shall come at last 
to lie down with us in our joy or our woe. 



la 



146 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 



THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT IN PULPIT ORATORY. 

The earliest modern attempt to make the Drama a vehicle 
of spiritual instruction was rather amusing than successful. 
As was its origin in classic Greece, so was its revival in 
catholic Europe most intimately connected with religion. 
The monks of the dark ages, unable to render attractive the 
simple truths of the bible, endeavored to set forth its events 
and doctrines by scenic representation. But the stupidity 
of both teacher and pupil made way for barbarous anachron- 
isms in these sacred mysteries. The motley stage-group 
would at one time bring together in strange commingling, 
the Saviour of the world, the ass of Balaam, and the poet 
Virgil talking in rhyme. Another catastrophe would pre- 
sent the figures of our first parents arrayed with the imple- 
ments of modern industry — Adam with spade and plough, 
and his frail consort at her spinning-wheel. '^ I have my- 
self," says Coleridge, ^' a piece of this kind on the education 
of Eve's children, in which after the fall and repentance of 
Adam, the offended Maker condescends to visit them and to 
catechize the children, who with a noble contempt of chronol- 
ogy are all brought together from Adam to Noah. The good 
children say the ten commandments, the apostle's creed, and 
the Lord's prayer, but Cain after he had received a box on 
the ear for not taking off" his hat, and afterward offering his 
left hand, is tempted by the devil so to blunder in the Lord's 
prayer as to reverse the petition and say it backward." 

And yet there is a dramatic exhibition of truth very differ- 
ent from the measured tread of the buskin, or the flummery 
of modern theatricals. The stage has become so corrupt 
that it has degraded the very taste and spirit on which it is 
founded. We speak of the dramatic element such as it ex- 



IN rULPIT ORATORY. 147 

ists in true naturalness and dignity within the soul of man, and 
such as even Inspiration has employed to arouse attention 
to its solemn themes. The Old Testament contains whole 
books, which are eminently dramatic both in their structure 
and style. The exquisite poetry of Solomon's Song takes the 
form of almost coiiscant dialogue between the various indi- 
viduals of the nuptial group, while the company of virgins, as 
the scholar cannot fail to notice, is like the chorus of the Gre- 
cian Tragedy. The poem of Job, not alone in the distinct- 
ness of its characters, but in the varied interest of its scenes 
and the deep and startling power of its descriptions, may lay 
claim to the dramatic sisterhood. Even David often com- 
bines the drama with the ode, and we lose the charm of some 
of his richest melodies, unless we hear separate and respon- 
sive voices, sometimes from a single companion in music and 
praise, sometimes from the assembled chorus of Israel, again 
from the ever-eloquent depths of nature, and now deep and 
solemn from the bosom of God. 

Yet it is the dramatic spirit rather than the dramatic form 
that we chiefly notice in scripture. It is that intense, vivid 
and picture-like expression, into which the poetry of the bi- 
ble in its flashes of excitement so often rises. Such are those 
sudden changes of person throughout the Psalms, where the 
narrator becomes at once the actor, and throws down the 
harp to take up the sword and shield. Such is the sombre 
procession of ghosts that Isaiah summons to meet the king 
of Babylon. Ushered in by the exulting fir-trees and cedars 
of Lebanon, they come to utter taunts over his unburied corse, 
to sound the noise of viols in his ears, and to spread over 
him his wormy coverlid. The prophets in fact are pervaded 
throughout by this dramatic spirit. We hear in them the 
voices of busy multitudes, and the din of bustling action. 
They hurry us across a stage hung with every form of scenery, 
fields waving with harvests, or bristling with spears — na- 
tions charioted and crowned in triuuiph, or sitting in sack- 



148 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 

cloth, solitary. In our ears are the shouting for the summer- 
fruits, or the trumpeted alarm from the mountains, or the 
doleful creatures howling over the ruins of ancient splendor, 
and sometimes sweet strains of the orchestral music of 
heaven. 

Nor in the more didactic dispensation of the New Testa- 
ment are we entirely destitute of the same rhetorical feature. 
It is true, the inspired fishermen tell their story with few of 
the graces of style, and but little vividness of emotion. Luke, 
the most accomplished historian, has a severe classical taste 
w^hich confines him to the simple language of narrative and 
the chasteness of Greek models. Paul, though he occasion- 
ally introduces the forms of logical dialogue, would seem to 
have studied in the school of Demosthenes rather than that of 
Aeschylus. But where can be found a richer variety of the 
dramatic style in its simple elements, than in the parables 
and discourses of our Saviour, crowded as they are with beauty 
and tenderness and solemn sublimity, and appealing to the 
soul of man from its sympathy with life and action. And 
how full of the loftiest dramatic life is the vision unfolded at 
Patmos, where the spirit of Hebrew Poetry looks out at the 
eye of the last of the prophets, and 

"gorgeous tragedy, 
In sceptred pall, comes sweeping by." 

With what a magic hand are we hurried through the three 
great acts of this sublime yet mysterious drama — to watch 
the shifting scenes in seals and vials and trumpets — each 
movement of the grand plot amid thunderings and earthquakes 
— till time deepens into eternity, and the toiling church on 
earth becomes the praising church in heaven. 

With these inspired models, and with subjects so fitted to 
foster the dramatic spirit, it seems natural that the preacher 
should exhibit something of this element in his discourses. 
The most eloquent pulpit-orators have often availed them- 



IN PULPIT ORATORY. 149 

selves of the dramatic form with no little effect. It may be 
observed in those changes of scene and of character, by which 
the monotony of the didactic discourse is relieved, and its 
truths stand out like life. Particularly do the historical themes 
of the bible furnish scope for this peculiar style. A sermon 
founded upon a scene or character in sacred history, may be 
in one sense a perfect drama, constructed in close accordance 
with the most classic models. The preacher may trace the 
progress of the story with a vividness surpassing pictured 
and shifting scenery. He may present the varied characters, 
with an individuality of delineation, more striking than if 
they stood forth in person upon the stage. He may act out 
the catastrophe in glowing language, and lifesome gesture, as 
if himself were living over again the scene he depicts. He 
may intersperse the whole with homiletic preludes and inter- 
ludes, like the chantings of a moral chorus, amid the stir of 
tragedy. Or without attempting this prolonged exhibition of 
dramatic skill, he may, like Whitefield, mingle this form with 
his occasional discourses — varying the sameness of direct ad- 
dress by alternate scenes of terror or of joy — causing the past 
and the future to come home like the living present to the 
soul, and making the pulpit speak forth with the varied tongues 
of angels and men. But for this dramatic form in the pulpit 
rare powers are requisite. It demands an ability to distin- 
guish and depict the nicer shades of character, or it is the 
form without the power and life. It should be characterized 
by true dignity of moral picturing, or it becomes the false 
glare of histrionic tinsel. It should be pervaded by spiritual 
unction, or it degenerates to buffoonery and farce. 

But it is the dramatic spirit which may be most success- 
fully and generally cultivated in pulpit oratory. As the form 
of dialogue may exist without its impression of vividness and 
force, so the dramatic spirit may pervade the sermon, and 
w^arm and animate the style, where there is no formal succes- 
sion of scenes and persons. It is this characteristic which 

13* 



150 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 

is most opposed to the barren and deadening influence of ab- 
stract theology — theology which has made the men described, 
and the men addressed from the pulpit, like statues lifeless 
and cold. The dramatic spirit in all its dealings with men, 
will turn away from the stiff specimen picture hung up in the 
garret, and in the open air will draw from the breathing figures 
of nature. And not content with re-creating the men that 
had been turned to stones, the dramatic preacher will invade 
the very domain of this granite Circe, to transform its stones 
to men. Under his Ithuriel touch abstraction becomes being. 
The words dealed out to the people are truths passed through 
the fire of life. Ideas stand forth with the breathing force of 
objective realities. The lines of his own experience blaze 
around his thoughts, and he speaks with the energy of one 
who reads his doctrine in the clear pages of history, or the 
burning revelations of prophecy — with a cloud of witnesses 
from the past and the future, gathering near to confirm with 
trumpet-tone the sentence. He presents truth as it breathes 
in the stirring scenes of every day life, or as it speaks in 
some new, yet lifelike group which the imagination may 
call up. He is so familiar with men that he seems to dwell 
within the temple of their very consciousness. Does he draw 
from that store-house of scenery and character, the bible, he 
seems to live over again the David, and the Paul, and the Je- 
sus. To him, Christianity is one walking among men, with 
his form erect and his eye on heaven, and Judgment is the 
hurrying of the very audience to whom he speaks, pale and 
trembling, before the bar of the great assize. When he 
touches upon sin, it instantly leaves the vague abstraction 
of depravity, and assumes a concrete and palpable form. It is 
one sin selected with penetrating eye from the long black cata- 
logue. It is the very one that he has wrestled with and wept 
over in his own closet, or traced with keen sagacity in the hearts 
of others. It stands out as no cold hypothesis, but a stern re- 
ality. The subject of his discourse is the criminal himself 



IN PULPIT ORATORY. 151 

rather than the crime. He unveils the seclusion of the sin- 
ner, he brings to view liis parleys with conscience, his dal- 
lyings with temptation, he traces his downward progress 
from step to step, for a moment he follows him back in his 
weak and hesitating relapse toward virtue, till again the 
ground crumbles beneath his feet, and the solemn dramatist 
suspends him over the brink. The hearer goes away and 
says — a man has spoken to us — he has spoken to me. 

No writer possesses more of this dramatic skill than that 
Shakspeare of theology, John Bunyan. It has been justly 
observed, that while other dramatists make their men person- 
ifications of moral qualities, he turns the abstract qualities 
into men. What Mr. Honest said of himself, will apply to 
all the characters of the Pilgrims' Progress — '' so the old 
gentleman blushed and said, not Honesty in the abstract, but 
Honest is my name." And this is the secret of Bunyan's 
power over us in childhood. ^^ All the world is a stage," 
but the vouncr heart is most full of dramatic life and action, 
and that author speaks to its condition and kindles its love, 
who clothes upon the ideal, and peoples it with familiar forms. 
The Christian's conflicts and joys have a power over those 
fresh and buoyant feelings, which the sternest tragedy cannot 
surpass. With unwearied interest we follow the Pilgrim 
from '' the slough of despond from which he could not get 
out by reason of the burden that was upon his back," to the 
river of death where Hope says to him, " Be of good cheer, 
my brother, I feel the bottom and it is good." There is not 
a brave picture in the interpreter's house, or a goodly pros- 
pect from the delectable mountains, before which we do not 
pause and admire. In our imaghiation we affix to each cha- 
racter its appropriate features, and our idea of Mr. Feeble- 
mind, Mr. By-ends and Mr. Great-heart " who was not afraid 
of the lions," will be as distinct and definite as if they were 
our own traveling companions. So perfect is this dramatic 
power that we become ourselves in sympathy the actors, and 



152 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 

experience as we read along every alternation of feeling. We 
ourselves shudder at the hideous pit-falls, or turn pale in the 
giant's dungeon, or tug up the hill of difficulty, or ^' awake to 
sing in the chamber whose name is peace." We ourselves 
step forward with shoulders pressed back, and glances of de- 
fiance at those who bar up our pathway, and say with a stout 
voice to the man with the inkhorn, '' Set down my name, sir ;" 
and it seems as if our own souls were ravished at ^' the plea- 
sant voices from those within, even those that walk on the top 
of the palace." How Bunyan may have employed this element 
in his preaching will appear from a homely passage, which, 
though a specimen of the lower kind of dramatic power, is 
singularly adapted to bring home the stern realities of truth 
to an illiterate audience. '' They that will have heaven," he 
says, "■ must run for it, because the devil, the law, sin, death 
and hell follow them. There is never a poor soul that is 
going to heaven, but the devil, the law, sin, death and hell 
make after that soul. And I will assure you the devil is nim- 
ble, he can run apace, he is light of foot ; he hath overtaken 
many; he hath turned up their heels, and hath given 
them an everlasting fall. Also the law ; that can shoot a 
great way; have a care that thou keep out of the reach 
of those great guns, the ten commandments. Hell also 
hath a wide mouth, and can stretch itself farther than you 
are aware of If this were well considered, then thou, as 
well as I, wouldst say, they that will have heaven must run 
for it." 

The French pulpit has perhaps been more distinguished 
for the dramatic style of its discourses than any other. But 
it is too often the glitter of theatrical show, and the aim af- 
ter stage-effect that is exhibited by the preachers of that gay 
people, rather than the natural out-flowing of vivid and life- 
like emotion. Among the old divines of England, Jeremy 
Taylor has most availed himself of the dramatic element, oc- 
casionally in prolonged passages of tragic grandeur, again in 



IN PULPIT ORATORY. 153 

the graphic lifesomeness of those comparisons in which all 
nature seems endowed with speech, and chiefly in that per- 
sonal and individual power with which he depicts and re- 
proaches sin. " That soul that cries to those rocks to cover 
her, if it had not been for thy perpetual temptations, might 
have followed the Lamb in a white robe : and that poor man 
that is clothed with shame and flames of fire would have 
shined in glory, but thou didst force him to be partner of thy 
baseness." 

Among the metaphysical divines of New England, that ad- 
mirable theologian, Dr. Bellamy, was particularly distinguish- 
ed for the same element. We may see some traces of it in 
the fourth of his profound and eloquent discourses on '' the 
wisdom of God in the permission of sin," where in his ovni 
beautiful language, " patriarchs, prophets, apostles, martyrs, 
and angels, mixed in the same assembly, all join to carry on 
the conversation, each filled with holy delight, while the ways of 
God to man, and the ways of man to God, are all the theme." 
But it was chiefly in his extemporaneous efforts, under circum- 
stances calculated to excite and enliven, that his noble frame 
and sonorous voice seemed to kindle with the inspiration of his 
soul. The following graphic account of the style and man- 
ner of Bellamy is from the pen of an eye-witness, and may be 
valuable as illustrating the mode in which the sternest theolo- 
gy may be dramatized. '' While I was an undergraduate 
at New Haven," says the historian Trumbull, ''The Dr. 
preached a lecture for Mr. Bird. At the time appointed 
there was a full house. The Dr. prayed and sang, then rose 
before a great assembly apparently full of expectation, and 
read for his text — ' Cursed be he that confirmeth not all the 
words of the law to do them.' The number and appearance 
of the people animated the preacher, and he instantly present- 
ed them with a view of the twelve tribes of Israel assembled 
on Mt. Ebal and Mt. Gerizim, and the audience were made 
to hear the Levites distinctly reading the curses, and all the 



154 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT 

thousands of Jacob repeating them, uttering aloud their ap- 
proving Amen. Twelve times, says the Dr., it goes round, 
round, round all the camp of Israel. Cursed be the man 
who committeth this or the other iniquity. Nay round it 
goes through all the thousands of God's chosen people — 
*' Cursed is he that confirmeth not all the words of the law to 
do them ; and all the people shall say amen." Having from a 
variety of views established the leading point, that every sin 
deserves eternal death, that he may treat all parties fairly, he 
brought the objector upon the stage to remonstrate against 
the doctrine he had advanced. Then Gabriel was brought 
down to show the futility of these objections, and the impi- 
ous presumption of making them against the divine law and 
government. They were clearly answered, and the opponent 
was triumphantly swept from the stage. The argument gain- 
ed strength and beauty through the whole progress." It seem- 
ed as if so many new witnesses were summoned for the truth. 
The stern doctrines of the gospel assumed a lifesomeness and 
a plausibility, which they could not possess in the coldness of 
abstract detail, and to each sinner there seemed to come a 
voice pronouncing upon Mm the fearful doom and demanding 
his approving amen. 

There is a familiar passage in one of the sermons of Tho- 
luck, which is perhaps the best specimen to be found in any 
language of the higher dramatic power. It is designed to il- 
lustrate the danger of delay in religion, and w^e are hurried 
from one scene to another with a rapidity which is equaled 
only by the vividness with which each individual picture is 
presented. First, we stand by a burning house, and we follow 
the distracted parent as he hurries back for the missing one, 
only to hear the words, ^'Too late^^ from the tumbling walls. 
Instantly it is night about us, and we hear the tramp of a 
courser, as the wanderer flies homeward for a dying father's 
blessing. ^' Too late^' is the shriek that pierces his soul as he 
reaches the dwelling of death. Again the scene is changed. 



IN PULPIT ORATORY. 155 

We stand by a scaffold. The victim, the executioner, the 
implements of death, and the shivering multitude are around 
us. Suddenly and far off on the distant hill, there are signs of 
joy. A low murmur begins at the verge of the crowd, and 
like a wave of sound seems speedily to pervade the whole 
mass of being. Pardon — Pardon — Pardon — but not till the 
guilty head has fallen. " Yea," says the preacher, " since the 
earth has stood, the heart of many a man has been fearfully 
pierced through by the cutting words — Too late. But oh, 
who will describe the lamentation that shall arise, when at 
the boundary line which parts time from eternity, the voice 
of the righteous judge will cry — Too late. Long have the 
wide gates of heaven stood open, and its messengers have 
cried. To-day, to-day if ye will hear his voice. Man, man, 
how then will it be with you, when once those gates with ap- 
palling sound shall be shut for eternity." 

Gentlemen of the Porter Rhetorical Society, 

On former occasions like the present, you have had pre- 
sented from this chair, the rules and principles of christian 
action. We have chosen to leave behind as our legacy, a 
branch of that great science which our association is design- 
ed to cultivate, persuaded that we should become better 
preachers if we analyzed more closely the characteristics of 
pulpit-power, and caught the spirit of its illustrious models. 
Brethren, let these be our parting counsels. Walk among 
men, as those who receive impressions of ///<?, which will lin- 
ger about you in the closet and study. Read truth in the 
kindling eye, and the elastic step of your brother. Let it 
speak out in the scenes of your personal history, and the 
breathing pictures of the world you live in. Talk with your 
own souls as a familiar friend, and listen like David Brainerd 
to '' the various powers and affections of the mind, alternately 
whispering" their part in the great drama of your inward life. 



156 THE DRAMATIC ELEMENT IN PULPIT ORATORY. 

Commune with men, not the men of a single idea, or the 
creatures of some one profession, but those who have the 
world crowded into their souls, and life speaking through 
their language. Cultivate an acquaintance with the great past, 
whether it open to you the cave of the * golden-mouthed' 
at Antioch, or ride over the prophet's battle-field at Mecca, 
or come swelling up in organ-tones from the English cathe- 
dral. Study philosophically that myriad-minded man, the 
great dramatist. Learn theology whether it burns on the 
brow of Lear, or laughs under the coxcomb of his fool. Be- 
hold your own system of belief, that in which you were bap- 
tized in infancy, which you professed before angels in man- 
hood, which you hope to preach to old age, behold it speak- 
ing out in the unconscious developments of genius, and value 
it none the less that it comes not from a catechism, but from 
a play. Chiefly imbibe the dramatic spirit of the bible, and 
dwell on its great eternal themes till your own souls are won 
to a true fellowship. Above all, be yourselves men, not a 
monk peeping out upon the world through the dim lattice of 
a cloister ; not an owl dismal and sullen in the sunshine of 
existence. Be a man — acting, loving, living, with a sympathy 
for souls weighing upon your hearts, beaming from your eyes, 
burning in your speech. So may you hope to obtain what a 
great orator has called, " not eloquence merely, but action, 
noble, sublime, godlike action." 



SERMONS. 



14 



SERMON I. 



INFLUENCE OF FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS 
TRUTH UPON THE SINNER. 



A PROPHET IS NOT WITHOUT HONOR, SAVE IN HIS OWN COUNTRY, AND 

IN HIS OWN HOUSE. — Matthew 13: 57. 

That must have been an impressive scene, when Jesus 
first stood up to teach in the synagogue of his native city. 
Nearly a year before, he had left his kindred to go up to Je- 
rusalem. During that absence, he had received the seal of 
water from the hand of the Baptist, and witnessed the de- 
scent of the Heavenly Dove with its voice of confirmation. 
He had met Satan in the wilderness, and achieved a victory 
never before accomplished by man. In the spirit and power 
of a prophet, he had purged the temple at Jerusalem of its 
impurities. He had journeyed through Samaria dispensing 
his miraculous favors, and by his wisdom and his eloquence 
bringing multitudes to the truth. Allured by those social at- 
tachments to which his heart was by no means a stranger, he 
comes back to revisit the scenes of his childhood. He had 
left them a poor man's son ; he returns in the power of the 
Holy Ghost. Pale and worn with his spiritual conflicts, yet 
animated by the success of his past labors, and enthusiastic 
in the consciousness of his divine mission, ^* he stands up in 
the synagogue for to read." '' And the eyes of all them that 
were in the house were fastened on liim." What now was 



169 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 

the question with which this impressive silence was broken? 
What could they say to rid themselves of the impression of 
his short but thrilling discourse ? ''Is not this Joseph's son V 
And supposing that there was arrogance in his pretensions, 
they thrust him out of the city. 

After a career of successful benevolence, he appears a 
second time in the neighborhood of his early home. Again 
the truth of his sayings is pressed upon their hearts and con- 
sciences. Again they take refuge from its power by pointing 
to his former occupation, and to his brothers and sisters who 
were all with them. Acrain the Saviour of mankind is con- 
strained to crucify the sympathies of his humanity, and turns 
his back on the friends of his childhood with the sentiment 
of the text, '' A prophet is not without honor, save in his own 
country, and in his o^^Tl house." 

What was the chief circumstance which contributed to this 
rejection ? No doubt the envy of an equal, or the contempt 
of an inferior may have had part m it ; but chiefly it was their 
familiarity with the person of the prophet. Had a stranger 
appeared to them with these high pretensions, even though 
his garb had been humble and his mien lowly, he could not 
have been so contemned. No doubt the multitude would 
have turned scornfully away from the meek one : but, who 
can doubt that some expectant mother or daughter in Israel, 
some veteran waiting for the promises, would have hailed 
him as the Messiah ? But now, not one comes forward to 
receive his benediction, or to bid him God speed in his glori- 
ous enterprise. He was too well kno^^Tl to receive the honor 
that he merited. 

Otiier illustrations of the principle of the text are of con- 
stant occurrence. There is hardly a period in history, or 
a family that does not testify to its truth : — be it the discove- 
rer of a new continent, compelled to seek patronage from a 
foreign court, or the child of genius, nowhere less flattered 
and less honored than beneath his father's roof The voice 



FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 161 

of the preacher, that is as music to the ears of a stranger, 
falls unheeded upon the slumberers of his own flock ; and he 
whom great men revere as an oracle shall find many a famil- 
iar to doubt, and to scoff at his counsels. The wonders of 
nature also are nowhere so little revered as among those who 
were born and nurtured under their very shadow. Who 
thinks of pausing to wonder at the precipice which hung over 
his cradle in infancy, or at the cataract whose thunder was 
the music of his boyhood ? How many live indifferent and 
careless amid natural splendors that multitudes are compass- 
incr sea and land to behold ! Even truth itself — how value- 
less does it often become to those who have drawn it in with 
their earliest being ! And it sometimes seems, as if Jesus 
Christ coming to visit this land of his peculiar residence, this 
land where he has made himself most familiar in the ordi- 
nances of his gospel and in the blessings of his grace, comes 
to find that the Son of Man is most despised ^* in the house 
of his friends." It seems as if his Holy Spirit, driven away 
by our coldness and indifference, is now seeking some less 
enlightened regions for his abode; and we hear the sad la- 
ment as he departs from us, — *^ Verily a prophet is not with- 
out honor, save in his own country, and in his own house." 

Let me invite your attention then to an illustration of this 
principle : Familiarity with religious truths sometimes tends 
to make men insensible of their value and their power. And 
I shall endeavor to point out some important truths, which, 
from the very frequency and clearness with which they are 
revealed to us, we are prone to pass by with coldness and neg- 
lect. There is indeed in many minds a pride of scepticism 
which revolts at a truth so plain that the way-faring man may 
comprehend it, and if they cannot find new avenues of evi- 
dence, they prefer to show their superiority by adopting error. 
But it is not my purpose at the present time to expose this ar- 
rogant unbelief, so much as the indifference with which many 
who believe are prone to regard the truth. 

14* 



162 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 

I. The effect of familiarity is illustrated in respect to the 
existence and providence of God. 

The evidence for these glorious doctrines is written every- 
where. We see it in glowing characters upon the universe 
about us, and the universe within us. We read it in the mul- 
tiplied and variegated lessons of external nature, and on the 
clear and lucid pages of our o^^^l consciousness. Everv man 
has his own system of natural theology, but with how ma- 
ny is it matter of scientific rather than of experimental in- 
terest. How few are there who carry about with them a ha- 
bit of realizing the Deity they can so easily reason out in their 
closets, and whose whole lives are one constant and glowing 
treatise on the reality of a God. Every man by the aid of an 
anatomist can analyze the mechanism of the human eye, or 
the human hand, and study out the marks of a wise and su- 
preme contriver ; but who thinks of this contriver as pictur- 
ing each gratification for the sight, or regulating each motion 
of the limb ? And how many thousand times a day we use 
each facultv, and never think of the oroodness or the orreatness 
of our Father! Everyone can admire the sun by day and 
the stars by night, or meditate on the uniformity of nature, 
and the beneficent arrangements everywhere made for the 
comfort and happiness of God's creatures. But who thinks 
the more of God that the sun rises with regularity on each 
succeeding day, or that the seasons come round in their turn 
bringing their varied blessings. My brethren, we are good 
theologians in the closet and the study, and over the specula- 
tions of some profound philosopher ; but when we go forth to 
breathe the fresh air and gaze upon the green hills, though 
the truth is just as real and just as beautiful in nature as it is 
in books, we are prone to lay by the student ; and we fail to 
look upward. The very multitude of evidence which sur- 
rounds us, the very frequency and uniformity of the blessings 
we receive, render us forgetful of Him who teaches the lesson 
and bestows the gift. We have been drinking in this light, 



FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 163 

we have been nourished by this bounty, from the first dawn 
of our being. To us Jehovah is indeed ^' dark with excessive 
bright," veiled behind the richness and multiplicity of his 
own favors. We are not like those who have been groping for 
ages in darkness or in blindness, and to whom suddenly the 
sun appears shining in his strength, or to whose cleared vi- 
sion are revealed at once*the beauties of earth and sky. We 
were not placed in the midst of the universe as Adam was, 
with full maturity of powers. The idea of God does not force 
itself upon us as it did upon him with instantaneous, delight- 
ful, irresistible power. We have the same daylight of evi- 
dence but it has come gradually upon us, and our long famil- 
iarity has made us personally indifferent. ^^ But if we enter- 
ed the world with the same reason which we carry with us to 
an opera the first time that we enter a theatre, and if the cur- 
tain of the universe were to be rapidly drawn up, struck with 
the grandeur of everything which we saw, and all the obvious 
contrivances exhibited, we should not" as even a French 
atheist has confessed, '' be capable of refusing our homage to 
the eternal power which had prepared for us such a specta- 
cle. But who thinks of marveling at what he has seen for 
fifty years ? What multitudes are there who wholly occupied 
with the care of obtaining subsistence, have no time for spec- 
ulation ; the rise of the sun is only that which calls them to 
toil, and the finest night in all its softness is mute to them, or 
tells them only that it is the hour for repose." 

II. The same principle is illustrated in respect to our fa- 
miliarity with the character of Jesus Christ. 

It is a most perfect and delightful embodying of all that is 
great and good, which is furnished to us in the author of the 
New Testament dispensation. It commends itself to our 
highest moral tastes. The world in the brightest periods of 
its history has produced nothing like it. The dispensation of 
the law with its sword of terror affrighted none into such per- 
fect obedience. Philosophy in all its strugglings after ideal 



164 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 

virtue never gave birth even to a conception so pure as this. 
But now it comes to us not as a bare conception ; for the mind 
of man could never have originated such an idea, and the 
wants of man demanded the personaUty of flesh and blood. 
It is the Deity himself, no longer retiring from the gaze of 
men, and veiling himself in the mystery of his own invisible 
and spiritual nature ; no longer maxing himself known only 
by distant and terrible symbols — the flaming sword, the quak- 
ing mountain, and the voice of terror — but coming down to 
commune with men as a brother, to add to the joy of the so- 
cial circle by his friendly smile, and to sooth the sorrow of be- 
reavement by weeping at the grave of their loved ones. It is 
the mystery of God manifest in the flesh, attracting the soul 
by its incomprehensible nature, and coming home to its affec- 
tions as a provision for its greatest wants. But, my friends, 
how is it with us ? Do we commune constantly and intimate- 
ly with this fraternal guide ? Do we repair for sympathy and 
aid to this affectionate physician ? Is the presence of Jesus 
the delight of our souls, and do we find our own characters 
conforming themselves to his perfect pattern and growing 
into its likeness ? Ah ! to how many of us he comes like an 
old familiar friend, the companion of our childhood, ever by 
our side, yet remembered and loved and longed for, only when 
his assiduities cease and his visao^e is torn fi-om us forever. 
At how many of our hearts has he been a long time applying 
for admittance, and we, strange beings that we are, are so fa- 
miliar with his love and patience and forbearance that we put 
him off" to a more convenient season. The first lessons we 
read are the story of his life ; but the manger and the garden 
and the cross are words that have lost their significance to us, 
and fall upon the ear like threadbare tales. We read of his 
untiring labors, and they awaken no tribute of admiration. 
We read of the scoffings and contempt, the agony and the 
blood, and they raise no grief We are daily reaping the ben- 
efits of his influence, in the improvement of society and the 



PAMrLIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH, 16o 

advance of truth, but we seldom think of tracing back these 
moral blessings to bis instructions, and to the new develop- 
ment of the great law of love in his example as well as his pre- 
cept. We have been living so long in the noonday of the 
christian revelation, that we think not of the darkness which 
was chased away by its sunrise, and we are so satisfied with 
the light without, that we take no heed that the day da^\Ti and 
the day-star arise in our hearts. Could some one of those an- 
cient sages who groped in the night of heathenism, yet pant- 
ed for a purer illumination — could some Socrates have caught 
but a glimpse of the approaching morning, with what joy 
would he have hailed it. How humbly would he have sat at 
the feet of the dimly revealed Teacher. With what freshness 
and subduing power would the first obscure hints of the truth 
as it is in Jesus have come home to his soul. What a bright 
image of the Great Master would he have exhibited in his 
conduct, what an untiring devotion in his life. With him 
the sentiment, for me to live is Christ, would have been no 
cold and forced duty, but a living and fondly cherished prin- 
ciple : and the cross which we bear so sluggishly through gar- 
dens of ease, would have been a luxury to him even up the 
mountam where his Lord was crucified. 

EH. The effect of familiarity is further illustrated in-respect 
to the atonement by the blood of the Redeemer. 

There is a pathos and a power in those words, redemption 
by the blood of Jesus, which are lost by our fi-equent and 
heartless repetition. They reveal a mystery which even " the 
anorels have desired to look into ;" but from which we turn 
coldly and listlessly away. They come home to the human 
bosom in its want, and its wTetchedness, with a directness and 
a power which they seldom have to us who have always had 
that light to keep us fi-om despair : and because we have 
never despaired, we fail to do homage to the cross. The case 
of a poor heathen in India will illustrate somewhat the native 
power and adaptation of this doctrine. He had been a sinner, 



166 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 

and as all mankind are sometimes conscious of guilt, he felt 
wretched for his sin. There was a load on his spirit, when 
something said to him, there must be blood to wash the stain 
away. He found this truth proclaimed in the religious system 
in which he had been educated, and there was a response in 
his moral nature to the fitness of the doctrine, *' Without the 
shedding of blood there is no remission." He thought he 
would make a sacrifice of himself, and he pierced his sandals 
with sharp iron nails, and walked for miles with the blood 
streaming from his feet. Still the burden tarried on his soul. 
There was no remission by that blood. The load of guilt 
pressed as heavily as before. There was a void somewhere, 
he knew not exactly what ; but he wanted something like a 
hand leading him up to the Great Spirit whom he had offen- 
ded — an avenue that he saw not now between the sin-offer- 
ing and heaven. Faint and exhausted by his penance he drew 
near to a group who had gathered round a missionary from 
some christian land. He was too weak and too wretched to 
notice much that was going on ; but suddenly the words of 
the speaker arrested his attention — '^ The blood of Jesus 
Christ, his son, cleanseth us from all sin." He paused and 
leaned upon his staff. His face lighted up with animation. 
The great demand of his soul was met. ** This is just what I 
want, just what I want," he cried, and threw away his im- 
plements of self-torture, and laid down with cheerful alacrity 
his burden at the cross. But to us, my brethren, this truth 
comes not after we have exhausted ourselves in the search for 
peace. To us this Saviour comes not to pluck out the sword 
with which we have pierced our own bodies. And we have 
been so long acquainted with the plan of salvation that we do 
not sympathize with the strong emotion of an apostle when he 
exclaims, *^ Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gift 1" 
Not many years ago, in a destitute portion of our own land, 
there lived a man sunk almost to the degradation of heathen- 
ism. In early life he had lived within the sound of the gospel, 



FA]MILL\RITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 167 

and heard something of its edifying doctrines, but they had 
quite faded from his memory. A long life spent in bru- 
talizing ignorance and enervating dissipation, and among 
those who if they knew, never spoke to him, of Jesus, had 
completely eradicated every religious impression from his 
mind. He passed years groveling in this spiritual stupidity, 
without one thought of God. One day as he was at work in 
his field, suddenly and mysteriously, by one of those unac- 
countable processes by which the Holy Spirit urges convic- 
tion upon the soul, the thought rushed upon him, I am a sin- 
ner, and a sinner against God. He tried to banish it, but it 
staid there still. He left his work, and sat down to give him- 
self up to the overpowering emotion. Every moment the pic- 
ture grew deeper and blacker on the eye of his soul. The acts 
of his past life came rushing in one after one, with fearful 
rapidity, till the events of years were concentrated into a mo- 
ment, and that moment one of intense and burning conscious- 
ness of guilt. He went home, but the conviction followed 
him there. At first the single idea of sin was so intense that 
it excluded every other thought, even its eternal consequences. 
By and by the fear and expectation of punishment took posses- 
sion of his soul. Distracted with the sense of his own pollu- 
tion, haunted by the angry eye of God, bowed down with a 
foreboding of some dreadful avenging stroke, he wandered 
about not knowing whither to repair for relief The dim 
light of his early education did not shine upon him with its 
former vividness. No bible was near to teach him of the way 
of salvation. At length in part exhausted by the over-work- 
ing of his nature, in part yielding to his new views of truth, he 
settled down into something like submission to the will of God. 
He had become a changed man ; he communed with his Ma- 
ker ; he was animated by high purposes of action. Yet still he 
felt no peace. He looked upon himself as one doomed to de- 
struction ; but he felt his deserts, and never murmured. He 
was solemn as the grave. No one ever saw a smile upon his 



168 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH, 

countenance. Day by day he walked to his field with the bur- 
den upon his soul, but still he felt that God was just, and he ad- 
mired that justice. He was ready to bless the hand that was 
lifted for his destruction. Months elapsed, and the minister 
of Jesus passed that way. He heard the plan of redemption 
unfolded ; he read in the New Testament of the sufferings of 
Christ, and the economy of grace. How beautiful was its fit- 
ness ! He wept, he wondered, he adored. He thought of 
the atonement, not as a doctrine in theology to be canvassed 
and discussed, but as a matter of personal interest and experi- 
ence. The agony and the blood seemed concentrated on him 
as its object. Christ died for me, was the burden of his song 
through life. Christ died for me, were the words which trem- 
bled on his lips when he died. My brethren, we give a promi- 
nence to this doctrine of Christ crucified in our preaching 
and our faith ; we assent to it as the great source of our hope ; 
but who of us dwells upon it with such rapture as it merits ? 
who of us stirs himself to repay this matchless, this amazing 
debt? 

IV. My last illustration of the indifference produced by fa- 
miliarity is in respect to the doctrine of fiiture retribution. 

Suppose we had no knowledge of eternity ; suppose that 
Christ had never come to ^^ bring immortality to light ;" sup- 
pose moreover that every trace of this glorious doctrine were 
blotted out from the nature of man ; that he should look with- 
in, and read no prophetic indications in the desires and aspir- 
ings of his soul ; that he should stand by the bedside of the 
dying, and no enkindling eye, no gushing eloquence, no rapt 
vision of the prostrate one should speak of the life of the spirit 
begun anew, rather than ended forever ; that he should go to 
weep at the grave, and the last sight should be the ghastliness 
of death, and the last sound should be the earth crumbling 
harshly and heavily upon the coffin ; that he should go away 
with that sight and that sound to haunt him through life ; 
that in the one, he should read the monotonous lesson of cold- 



FA3ILLIAilITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 169 

ness and silence and corruption : in the other, he should hear 
the hollow murmur, ^* Death is an eternal sleep :" — no bless- 
ed hopes of reunion with the departed, no sweet conscious- 
ness of their still hovering about his pathway, nothing to check 
his own rush toward that obliyious gulf, nothing to cheer the 
prospect of eternal gloom ; — suppose that now in the midst of 
this ignorance and darkness a voice was heard in heaven prcK 
claiming, '" The dead shall live." " The dead shall live !'' 
Those words penetrate every ear ; they vibrate on every soul, 
startling the stupid, comforting the cheerless, and lighting up 
the expiring eye with the brilliancy of a new life. But soon 
a doubt clouds the new begotten joy. The dead shall live, 
but how long ? Are they destined to another brief career 
like this, and yet another and another, each to be ended by 
the same destroyer, till the last link in the chain of light goes 
out in darkness. The dead shall live, but hoic long ? And 
in the midst of heaven, in characters of living light, and so 
that every eye can see it, is wTitten that word — -forever. Glo- 
rious thought I This spark is quenchless. Forever is now 
the word that trembles on every tongue, and rings through 
the universe. Instantly how changed becomes the aspect of 
the world ! How new and godlike the appearance of the 
creation in the light it borrows from eternity, in the dicrnity 
it assumes as the threshhold of an existence which shall never 
terminate ! And how noble becomes the bearing of man ! 
Yesterday the creature of a moment — to-day, the heir of im- 
mortality. But the revelation is not yet completed. The 
dead shall live forever ; but how ? What is to be the char- 
acter of that eternity, what its relation ? Does it open upon 
us scenes of joy or of wo ? Does it divide between the hap- 
py and the miserable at hap-hazard, or is there some great 
law of distinction ? The dead shall live forever, but how ? 
And a still small voice from the depths of the soul comes up 
with the tidings of retribution ; and the Spirit of the living 
God coniirms the decision in the fearful sentence — " He that 

15 



170 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 

is filthy, let him be filthy still ; and he that is holy, let him be 
holy still." Oh ! my fi-iends, think you that such a universe 
would be fiill of cold and inactive beings? Would they 
give themselves any rest until they had complied with the con- 
ditions of salvation ? Would there not be hurrying to and 
fro, and anxious countenances of those who would save them- 
selves, or pluck their fellow-sinners as brands from the burn- 
ing ? But, as for us, we do not live in such a community. 
These are no new truths to us. Old are they as the bible, 
familiar as the first elements of knowledge — and we do not 
feel them. The christian knows that he is an heir of heaven ; 
but he does not walk erect as if he were conscious of it. The 
sinner knows that he is a candidate for hell ; but he never 
looks aghast at its horrors. And we, my brethren, surround- 
ed by the perishing — comes their wail to us from the dis- 
tance of heathenism, or see we them hurrying to perdition 
from our own families and neighborhood — can scarcely lift a 
finger to hold them back from their doom. A few cold pray- 
ers, a few heartless efforts, instead of the zeal and the agony 
of those who look into the hole of the pit from which them- 
selves have been digged. 

These illustrations might be indefinitely multiplied. The 
principle of our discourse would be found true in respect to 
almost all the more important and familiar doctrines of our 
religion. It is verified also in our most common religious 
privileges. We often need a temporary seclusion from the 
ordinances of the gospel, in order to impress us with their 
value. It is ** by the rivers of Babylon that we sit down and 
weep while we remember Zion." To the traveler long ab- 
sent in distant climes there is an unwonted melody in the 
sabbath-bells of his native land. To the son just returned 
fi*om his wanderings to the paternal roof, the family altar as- 
sumes a beauty and a dignity he can no longer despise ; 
and the voice of the old man at prayer has a solemn eloquence 
that comes home to the heart. And you, my brother, when 



F-OnXIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TP.UTH. 171 

disease or affliction have made you a long exile from the public 
worship of God, with what delight do you repair to his tem- 
ple ! With David you sing. • how amiable are thy taberna- 
cles/' as you come up from the solitude where you have pant- 
ed and fainted for the courts of the Lord. Beautiftil indeed 
to you are the feet of them that publish glad tidings, and the 
walls of Jerusalem and the gates of Zion you prefer above all 
the dwellings of Jacob. 

In view of this subject I remark, 

First, That truth is just as real and as certain as if we were 
not insensible to it. 

If the principle of the discourse be correct, if our familiar- 
ity with religious truths has often a tendency to make us look 
coldly upon them, it must follow, that our degree of apprecia- 
tion is no measure of their value. It is just as true, that God 
is everywhere about us, always mindftd of our wants, though 
we never think of him. It is just as true, that Christ comes 
to us by the bright lessons of his example and the melting 
doctrines of his death, though we turn our backs alike on the 
manger and the cross. It is just as true, that we are pressing 
onward to eternity, though we grasp after present pleasure, 
and think not of the future. Truth is perfect and immutable 
amid all the weakness and changes of man. God is not in- 
different when he finds his paternal love slighted and despised. 
Christ is not luiaffected when we turn coldly away from his 
tender entreaties, though he come repeatedly with the expos- 
tulation, *' How often would I — but ye would not/' And de- 
struction is sure to those who persevere in sin ; though they 
go to their doom like a blind man hurrying to a precipice, or 
a drunkard dancing among pitfalls. 

Secondly, The subject teaches us the imperfection of our 
present state, and the way to overcome it. 

We are so debased by the power of sin, so groveling in our 
moral tastes, so limited in our views, so short-lived in our emo- 
tions, and so easily exhausted by their intensity, that the most 



172 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRL'TH. 

beautiful objects soon lose their beauty to us. Truth seems 
to partake of the infirmities of our poor decaying bodies. But 
it is not so in heaven. There the soul never tires in the 
thought of God, however intimate may be his manifestations. 
There the secret of redemption is perfectly revealed, but it 
has an interest and a power ever fresh; and the choir of hea- 
ven never grow weary or stupid, as they cease not day or 
night their rapturous hallelujahs to the Lamb. The great 
reason is that there, love is more perfect. And those who on 
earth approach the nearest to the spirit of Heaven, who are 
most in love with the truth, are best able to break away from 
this dulness and indifference. Do you suppose that the true 
poet ever becomes indifferent to the beauties of nature be- 
cause of their familiarity ? No ! he loves them so well, that 
they burst upon his vision with new glory every day. Sup- 
pose you that the mother of Jesus turned coldly away from 
him when he came to preach in the neighborhood of his 
home ? Not so. Others despised him because they knew 
him so well ; but she who knew him better than all, for the 
love that she bore him as her son and her Saviour, no doubt 
received him to her bosom with fresh tenderness, and pon- 
dered his sayings in her heart. And so the man who loves 
God as he should love him, can neither walk abroad nor look 
inward, without a delightful and perpetual consciousness of 
his presence and goodness. He to whom the Redeemer is 
indeed '^ the chief among ten thousands," never becomes 
wearied with the oft-heard name, or cold towards the ever- 
present brother. Rather pants he for a more intimate com- 
munion. The language of his soul is, " Make haste, my be- 
loved and be thou like to a roe, or to a young hart upon the 
mountains of spices." ^' Even so, come Lord Jesus, come 
quickly." If the sinner would break away from the stupidi- 
tv he feels in the midst of light, he must learn to love that 
liaht. If the Christian would wake from his lethargy and 
have an abiding sense of the reality and glory of truth, he 



FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 173 

must cultivate a greater love for it ; he must meditate upon 
it till he discovers new grace in its proportions, new life in 
its lineaments, new loveliness in its beauty — until it becomes 
in his soul that living principle, which is as exhaustless in its 
nature, as it is glorious in the action to which it prompts. 

Thirdly, The subject teaches us that men, if saved at all, 
are saved not because they have been furnished with chris- 
tian privileges, but because they have made a right use of 
them. 

There are many who live, as if they imagined men could 
not go down to perdition from under the refining influences 
of the gospel. But to such the subject gives a fearful lesson 
of the tendency of these very influences if they are not right- 
ly improved, to harden the heart and ripen it for destruction. 
If their doom be terrible who have provoked swift ruin upon 
themselves by heaven-daring crimes, how much more dread- 
ful is the wo pronounced by our Saviour against such as hav- 
ing been " exalted to heaven are thrust down to hell.'' My 
fellow sinner, when you stand at the bar of judgment, and the 
books are opened, and the sentence is about to be pro- 
nounced against you, do not think of saying to the Judge, 
'' I know thee well. I was a member of the community thou 
didst so often visit. Thou hast tauo;ht in our streets. From 
my earliest childhood I learned by heart the story of thy life 
and sufferings. And every sabbath, thy ambassadors warned 
me of judgment and eternity." Then shall the Judge answer 
and say, " Depart from me, I never knew you. The doc- 
trines of my gospel fit not those for heaven, who know them 
so well, that they nexer feci them. Your voice would mingle 
feebly with the praises of the blood-bought band. If any sin- 
ner is to be pardoned at this the eleventh hour of the universe, 
let it rather be some poor soul who comes from the depths of 
ignorance and gloom, and who will know how to value the 
light and blessedness of heaveu." 

Finally, while this familiarity with religious truth may rcn- 
15* 



174 FAMILIARITY WITH RELIGIOUS TRUTH. 

der the impenitent on earth indifferent to its power, there is 
no reason to believe that familiarity with suffering will at all 
diminish the agony of their disembodied spirits. It is indeed 
the insufferable blaze of truth that constitutes the chief mise- 
ry of the lost, but such as it sometimes for a moment bursts 
upon their distracted vision in this life, such will it be with 
ever mcreasing vividness and intensity when their souls break 
away from these imperfect frames. The naked spirit knows 
no reaction, and the sense of God's wrath never becomes old. 
My fellow-sinner, when you observe in this life, the nature of 
sickness and suffering to destroy their own power, when you 
see the diseased limb losing its sensitiveness, or the long pros- 
trate invalid becoming reconciled to his lot, think not that it 
will be so with you. It is written upon your own immortal 
nature, as well as upon the pages of God's word, that '^ the 
worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched." 



XOTE. 

The preceding discourse was the fii-st which Mr. Homer wrote. It 
was preached at South Berwick, May 3, 1S40 ;. aflerwards at Dan- 
Ters, Mass. 



SERMON II. 



THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN SUPERIOR TO THE ANGELS. 



Know ye not that we shall judge angels ? — 1 Cor. 6 : 3. 

These words have sometimes been thought to indicate 
that the saints will share in the administration of the general 
judgment. Such an idea however is not authorized either 
by reason or revelation, and it is highly improbable that the 
redeemed will turn away from their own award of justice, to 
pass sentence on '' the angels who kept not their first estate.'' 
There is a mode of explaining the passage more consonant 
with the spirit and the idioms of scripture. The language of 
the bible often derives its significance from some single fea- 
ture of analogy. The metaphors of animate and inanimate 
creation with regard to God and his people are not to be 
pushed to the extent of their literal meaning. When Jeho- 
vah is called a rock, or his people the sheep of his pasture, 
only a single view of their character and relation may be pre- 
sented. And so is it in the terms derived from civil and ec- 
clesiastical polity. It is not intended to describe an oflice 
precisely similar to that in church or state, but only a condi- 
tion marked by some similar qualities. When Christians are 
spoken of as kings and priests, it is not meant that they wear 
a crown or minister at an altar ; that they sway a sceptre, or 
intercede for the sins of the people, but rather that in heaven, 



176 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

they are exalted and honored like kings and priests on earth. 
Official relation is not at all designated, merely official digni- 
ty. In this way the office of a judge is most appropriately 
employed to image forth the same elevation. It is one of the 
most dignified and imposing of human titles. It brings be- 
fore the mind the picture of venerable wisdom upon its eleva- 
ted seat, dictating the noblest of sentiments to the noblest of 
pupils, and receiving the homage of the crowd. What more 
natural than that the beings, who are figuratively decked with 
the sceptre of royal dignity, and the mitre of sacerdotal rank, 
should put on also the vestments of the judicial station. They 
receive the admiring tribute of the world, and they may be 
styled the judges of the world. They are in some respects 
more glorious than the angels of God, and they may be said to 
judge those angels. The sentiment then, which I propose to 
illustrate as taught in the text, is this : 

Christians in heaven will in some respects be superior to 
angels. 

Our acquaintance with the angelic, as with other spiritual 
beings, is exceedingly limited. Sufficient, however, may be 
gathered from Scripture to teach the existence of an order of 
intelligences in many respects superior to men. They are 
represented as the counselors of Jehovah, and the swift min- 
isters to do his will. They are the mediators of the old dis- 
pensation. Through them the Most High comes down to 
wrestle and to commune with men. In shining hosts they 
hover around Mount Sinai, and crowd the chariots of God as 
the ^' fiery law goes forth from his right hand." Sometimes 
they appear as ministers of vengeance to smite down the doom- 
ed of God, and strike with awe the beholders. Yet chiefly do 
they serve on errands of mercy and love. In airy columns 
they follow the tribes of Israel in their wanderings, and guide 
them to the land of promise. They watch over the elect of 
God in temporal and in spiritual peril, " encamping round 
about them to deliver them.'* They gather in choirs over the 



TO THE ANGELS. 177 

shepherd-plains of Bethlehem, rendmg the still air of evening 
with unwonted anthems of praise. With refreshment and 
svmpathy they visit Jesus in the solitude of his temptation, 
and they wipe the thick drops from his brow on the night of 
his agony. They stand by as he sunders the cerements of 
burial, and tell the news of his rising to those who are earli- 
est at his grave. Arrayed in white apparel they explain on 
Olivet the mystery of his ascension, and the certainty of his 
second advent. They shall appear again to the gaze of men, 
when they come in the retinue of his judgment, by their pres- 
ence to add to the imposing spectacle, and assist in the ser- 
vices of the great day of account. 

For such offices and employments, most elevated and con- 
spicuous must be their qualities. How beautiful must be 
*'the face of angels,'' radiant with the lustre of the eternal 
throne. How enlarged must be '•' the wisdom of angels,*' at- 
tendants as they are upon the council-chamber of the All 
Wise. How vast must be their powers, when even " the 
winds and the lightnings'' cannot outstrip their swiftness, or 
surpass their workmanship. Above all, how spotless must be 
their purity, looking upon God with a familiar gaze which 
could but drive the sinful to despair. Yet with all these 
splendid capacities, with all this ecstasy of devotion, they must 
be strangers to the joys of the redeemed. Even we, my 
brethren, frail though we be, imperfect in our best services, 
groping through life, many of us, on an almost starless pilgrim- 
age; even we, the creatures of a day, who should tremble 
and turn pale at the approach of one of these winged messen- 
gers of immortality, are yet destined to enjoyments of which 
they can know but little. There are lights in heaven to be 
revealed to our vision which shine but dimly upon their souls. 
There are mansions reserved for us among the many in our 
Father's house, which they cannot enter. Hard by the altar, 
there is a place of sweet and humble devotion where we shall 



178 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

love to linger, but where the highest archangel is too high to 
prostrate himself, or to cast his crown. 

I. We will commence our proof of the proposition already 
laid down, by remarking, that Christians in heaven will be 
conscious of great advancement in their condition and char- 
acter. 

There is a familiar principle of the human mind, upon 
which this source of happiness is founded. The law of pro- 
gress is one of the fixed laws of our nature ; and it is a most 
wise provision that this progress is not accidental, but the 
result and reward of personal effort. No great advancement 
can be made without toil and suffering, and the remembrance 
of the former pain is the chief ingredient in the present joy. 
The traveler, who has gained the desired eminence, feels a 
satisfaction in looking down over the steep and craggy rocks 
up which he has climbed, and through the dark ravines where 
he wandered weary and famishing ; and it is a satisfaction 
which he could not have felt had an unseen hand planted his 
first existence on the spot of his triumph. There is pleasure 
by a winter fireside, in the companionship of loved ones, and 
the shelter of a thrifty mansion ; but it is chiefly when the rug- 
ged inmate travels over again in fancy his perilous voyages, and 
again in memory ^' the storm howls through the rigging." We 
sometimes feel as if the horrors of shipwreck in the winter, 
of long and tedious wrestling with the pestilence, of march- 
ing front to front with death upon the battle field, were more 
than compensated by the gratification of the old veteran when 
he recounts in after years his tales of wonder, and the senti- 
ment speaks out in his eloquent eye — 

" All which I saw, and part of which I was." 

Nor is this principle developed merely in circumstances of 
outward superiority. Not only do the rich and happy recur 
with satisfaction to the period of their poverty and distress ; 



TO THE ANGELS. 179 

but the scholar prizes his acquisitions most, when he thinks 
of the achinor brow and the midnicrht study which secured 
them, and hopes most cheeringly for the attainments of the 
future, when he thinks of the ignorance of the past. The 
Christian adores most gratefully the grace of God, when he 
thinks of the pollution from which he has been snatched, 
when he looks back to the temptations through which he has 
been guided, and the spiritual hazards which have only dis- 
ciplined him for manliness of character and purity of faith. 

We cannot deny that angels may be the subjects in some 
measure of this law of progress. No doubt they have had a 
period of probation, which may be now closed, so that they 
are enjoying the assurance of complete confirmation. No 
doubt their capacities are progressively enlarging, so that they 
enjoy a satisfaction similar to ours, when they compare the 
knowledge and power of the present with the past. Yet sub- 
stantially their nature and relations and enjoyments must have 
continued forever the same. No cloud of misery or doubt 
has ever for a moment obscured their vision. No sin has 
ever crept in to defile by its slightest touch their nature. 
However great the changes in their condition, they can never 
have crossed '^ the great gulf" from pain to bliss, from sin to 
purity. The variation is in the degree, and not the kind of 
their enjoyment. Not so will it be with us. All the changes 
we undergo in our earthly career, are not to be compared 
with that of which we shall be sensible, when we enter into 
our final reward. If we joy in our earthly escapes, and our 
earthly advancement, what must be our ecstasy at that wid- 
est and hicrhest fiio^ht, when we enter on our new career of 
accelerated progress. 

First, The spirit will be free from the depressing influ- 
ence of a material body. 

We do wrong when we indulge in sweeping invectives 
against our imperfect physical nature. We should not un- 
dervalue the body. It is the stepping stone to inunortality. 



189 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

The soul can be best cradled by it in its nascent state, when 
first born into a world of knowledge and action. Its subse- 
quent maturity and perfection are no doubt best secured by 
such an alliance. Its knowledge of the relations of space 
and time, and many of its most important susceptibilities of 
pain and pleasure, are derived from its connexion with this 
curiously wrought frame- work. Yet however indebted the 
soul may be to the discipline of this preparatory school, it is 
evident that a material frame is in no way fitted for the eter- 
nal home of the spirit. Even if man had continued morally 
perfect there would probably have been much of imperfection 
incident to his physical nature. The spirit happy in the con- 
sciousness of purity would yet have panted for clearer views, 
larger knowledge, more intimate communion with its Maker. 
I think it is beyond a question, that the happy family would 
have continued but for a season to pluck the fruits of the gar- 
den, and enjoy the privileges of its devout and holy intercourse. 
The eye would have beamed with the hope of a brighter 
existence, and the mind would have expanded in the anticipa- 
tion of communion with the unseen. '^ In a moment, in the 
twinkling of an eye, they would have all been changed." 
Even those who in our imperfect world have approached the 
nearest to a subjugation of the body, seem but to have 
been ripened for their dissevered spirituality. Enoch walk- 
ed with God so intimately, that death seemed afraid to 
shake at him his dreadful dart. Yet he could not be 
left to immortality on earth; but, as if the body were no 
sphere for such purity and cultivation, ^' he was not, for God 
took him." Elijah, in a career which seemed more like that 
of an angel of light, than a prophet of earth, smote death in 
the widow's son, and faced his stern visage in the strength 
which the birds of the air did minister. Yet neither was he 
left to prosecute his great work of frowning down the enemies 
of the Lord, and shining as the conspicuous forerunner of his 
Messiah. He was caught up in a whirlwind of flame, to be 



TO THE ANGELS. 181 

charioteer of a warfare higher than that of Israel. The larger 
the thoughts, the more efficient the activity, the more do we 
pant after a sphere of unimpeded progress and action. I ap- 
peal to many of you, my brethren, whether there have not 
been moments in your experience, when views of truth or 
glimpses of your high destiny were so vividly presented that 
you felt unable to sustain the gaze. Bewildered and aston- 
ished, you felt restless longings to be free from a frame that 
could be so shattered by what your souls most craved and 
loved. Your language then was, ^' Oh ! that I had wings like 
a dove;" for then would I fly out of these dim windows into 
the clear noonday of the presence of my God. We feel that 
there is that without and that within, after which we hunger 
and thirst with unutterable cravings ; yet this dying nature 
cannot feed upon such heavenly food. 

" There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim ; 
Such harmony is in immortal souls, 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay- 
Doth grossly close us in, we cannot hear it."" 

" There is," says the apostle, ^^ a spiritual body." Won- 
derful and mysterious provision of divine benevolence ! God 
does not design that the dead in Christ shall be merely re- 
stored to moral perfection in heaven. He unites the perfect 
spirit with as perfect a nature. He imbues it with a frame 
adapted to its high behests, and its consummate cultivation. 
Even he hath an eye on the crumbling dust of his chosen. 
In the morning of the great resurrection, they come not up 
rusty and time-worn from their tabernacle of clay, or congeal- 
ed and dripping from their cold dark bed in the ocean. 
Blessed be God, *^ there is a spiritual body." Immortal beau- 
ty beams from their brow. The robe they wear is incorrup- 
tible. Onward and upward stretches the soul's field of vi- 

16 



182 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

sion — vast, illimitable. What looked dark to the earthly eye, 
becomes bright with the light of God. What the mind toiled 
to attain, till its strained efforts ended in disease or blindness, 
is now revealed in an instant, with no long processes of 
half-seen truth to detain, but in the blessedness of quick intui- 
tion. And farther beyond lie still undiscovered truths, to keep 
the mind alive with perpetual excitement, to prompt it to con- 
stant action, to secure by vigorous exercise its discipline and 
continued action. But principally are the hindrances to moral 
cultivation which are incident to our physical nature, absorb- 
ed and subdued in that new system. The passions assume 
their appropriate and subordinate seat. The dim media, by 
which the soul strove to look into perfection, shall give 
place to perfection itself Faith and hope shall be swal- 
lowed up in vision. But love shall remain. ^^ Yea," says 
Tholuck, ^^ not only shall it remain, but the narrow^ brook, 
which in this life flowed from deeply hidden fountains, will 
in that life become a wide stream. Here love could be pre- 
served only while the eye of faith held the invisible world di- 
rectly before itself Try it, shut for an instant this internal 
eye, and thou wilt love only what thou seest. Ah ! why dost 
thou hang solely upon the creatures of earth and long after 
them ? Why but because their eye of faith is not open, and 
thou seest not the invisible glory of the Father's image. But 
when there shall be no more need of this intellectual exer- 
tion, when the thick cloud of the earthly vale shall no longer 
press upon the eye of faith, when the very object, in which 
we here faintly believe, shall stand constantly before our vision 
— oh how easy will it then be to love ! The death of the be- 
liever shall be the death also of his faith and hope, but it shall 
be the resurrection-hour of his love." 

Secondly, Christians in heaven will be released from the 
pain and misery incident to their earthly condition. 

These bodies of ours are not only gross but perishing. 
They not only hold the immortal part in vassalage, but it is 



TO THE ANGELS. 183 

a vassalage which galls and goads, and sends the heart bleed- 
ing and broken to the grave. " All our life time through 
fear of death, we are in bondage." We feel the disease steal- 
ing over our owti frames. We trace its sure marks on the 
visage of our most beloved. To the vigorous and blooming 
in whom we trust most securely, death comes in the form of 
sudden and appalling calamity. " There are some persons,'^ 
as an old writer has expressed it, *^ upon whose foreheads 
every man can read the sentence of death written in the lines 
of a lingering sickness, but they^ sometimes hear the passing- 
bell ring for stronger men, even long before their own knell 
calls at the house of their mother earth to open her doors and 
make a bed for them." Yet there is a wretchedness more 
dreadful than this bodily suffering, or this personal bereave- 
ment. There is a prospect more gloomy than the solitude of 
sorrow, or the throbbings of continued pain. It is when 
the diseases of this shattered body turn inward to feed upon 
the mind. Even the healthful and wise and good are not free 
from the scourge of insanity. It has been estimated that its 
ravages are fearfully multiplying as civilization advances, so 
that beyond the accidental causes which may produce it, we 
must be in terror from those which are incident to the pro- 
gress of society. There is scarcely an educated man, or one 
that has been accustomed deeply and intensely to ponder the 
workincrs of his own mind, that has not felt some forebodings 
of this mental disease. ^^ Chain me face to face with death," 
says such a one, " and let my life be prolonged in lingering 
agonies, the stern monarch ever in my eyes — strip from me 
every object of earthly love, though the deep fastened fibres 
are left naked, and with no object to cling to — yet touch not, 
derange not that noble workmanship within. So I may look 
up to God from the depth of my woe, I will not murmur." 

In heaven all these pangs and griefs and anxieties are for- 
ever hushed. There the system contemplates with delight 
its own healthful and symmetrical action, with no fever- 



184 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

ish dread lest its wheels become disordered, and begin to 
move with jarring and painful discord. There shall be no 
night there. The dim ray of happiness which cheered our 
pilgrimage deepens into the full sunlight of fruition. The 
memory of the past, in the resurrection of its forgotten trea- 
sures, becomes as vivid as the consciousness of the present. 
And the light of day grows brighter in the reminiscence of 
night. Chiefly does this faculty aid us in making our former 
losses on earth, our gain in heaven. This is a rapture which 
angels cannot know. That seraph never receives back a 
child to his embrace, or welcomes the returning companion 
from his long absence. They know not of separation. Ever 
their spirits commingle and tabernacle together, and space 
and time can interpose no barriers to the perfection and the 
constancy of their intercourse. Not so, my brethren, will it 
be with us. The shining messengers who welcome us home 
shall be our old familiar friends. Distinct and palpable to our 
spiritual vision shall be the outline of each well-remembered 
and well-loved form. With what joy shall we recount to each 
other the perils of the past, and congratulate ourselves on the 
secure and blissful and everlasting communion to which our 
God exalted us. 

Thirdly, Christians in heaven will be perfectly free from 
sin. 

The perfection of the physical system which has already 
been described, if it were under the government of deprav- 
ed passions instead of being swayed by moral purity, would 
only aggravate the misery of its possessors. The absence of 
every external malady and pain would drive the soul more dis- 
mally inward to brood over its own moral wastes, and would 
quite shut out the prospect of relief from ultimate annihila- 
tion. In a system so perfectly articulated, so immense in its 
resources, so rapid in its activity, sin would be furnished with 
new powers of development, and new faculties of operation. 
With new alacrity would it stalk abroad to the work of ruin 



TO THE AXGELS. 185 

without , or prey inward in the processes of its endless suicide. 
What would be the expansicxi of knowledge, but the perpet- 
ual communion of the gnilty with the wrath of God. and the 
ability to sound the depths of that wo into which they were 
forerer plunginz ^: : Jd be the erer-liTin^ memory, 
but the power of : r .; *he spectres of c4d transgres- 

sions to haunt t:ic fc-ir^ ^p: :. ^nd *' nerer down at its bid- 
ding/' What would be the renewal of dLd associations, but 
a c<Hnpanionship where each laid <^p^i to the other the hide- 
ousness of his own depravity, and each was stimulated in his 
mad and miseraWe career by the mntnal exhibitiiHi. Oh love 
it and dote upon it as we may, there is nothing to be c^nnpar- 
ed with sin, when it unsheathes its scoipicxi-stings, and com- 
mences the work of setfretributicxL Bind your Tictim to the 
rack, and let him linger out his eternity in lacerati(His which 
heal up only to be torn afresh : with a good c<mscience and a 
pure soul, he may look up and smile frcwn his wretchedness. 
But with the enemy in his bosom he is insecure in a r-xk- 
built mansion — ^miserable on an archangers throne. 

" He that has light within his own clear breast 
Maj sit i" th' centre, and enjoy bright day : 
But he that hides a dark S'juI and foul thoughts, 
Benighted walks under the mid-day son, 
Himself is bis own dungeon/' 

The heaven of the Christian. — si? speaks the tongue of inspi- 
raticMQ, so speak the demands of our own spiritual nature. — is an 
abode of moral purity. " There shall in no wise enter into it 
anything that defileth," It is chiefly because " the wicked 
cea^e from troubling," that ** the weary are at rest," To the 
heirs of that blissfid portion how delightful the contrast ! 
Here sin was their great enemy. It sat crouched like a lurk- 
ing beast at the door of their hearts. It sparkled in the cup 
of pleasure. Arrayed in the habiliments of purity, it met 
them by the way-side, and now openly and fearlessly it assail- 

16* 



186 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

ed them as a strong man armed. Only in the last fading 
hour when it stood to mock and triumph by the bed of death, 
did it receive its signal overthrow, and shrink abashed from 
the scene. They went through life wrestling. They reach 
home toil-worn. But every spiritual fear is at length hushed. 
The warring is completed. The imperishable crown of vic- 
tory is put on. With what delight, from this house of refuge, 
do they look out upon the storms and battles of the past. 
The memory of each conflict enhances the value of their 
eternal reward. Each difficulty over which they stumbled 
in their earthly pilgrimage, makes more pleasant and smooth 
the pathway they now tread. There is a luxury in the peni- 
tence they still exercise for past transgressions, and they 
read over and over that dark sad history only to deepen the 
spirit of their devotions, and increase the ardor of their piety. 
It will be perceived that in this first argument, only a par- 
tial superiority is claimed for the saints. It is not asserted 
that they excel the angels in every species of happiness, but 
only in that which results from a contrast with their former 
state. It is not so much that they are above the angels now, 
as that they were so far below them once ; not so much that 
they possess higher powers and are enrobed in a more glorious 
nature, as that once their faculties were so limited, and their 
views so groveling. It is not that they are free from pain and 
safe from trouble, but that once they traveled over a stony 
path, and wet the ground with their tears. It is not that their 
existence is more spotless, or their praise more undefiled, but 
that once sin had a throne in their bosoms, and touched with 
unholy hand their purest sacrifices. They are the prodigal 
children brought home fi^om long, dark, famished wanderings 
to their Father's house. Angels are the elder sons of the 
family — ever faithful to its regulations, ever rich in its boun- 
ties, never straying beyond the privileges of its joyous circle. 
But for the returning ones they make merry and are glad. 
Joy swells the bosom of the Father more than if he had never 



TO THE ANGELS. 187 

mourned over the lost and dead. Joy beams on the counte- 
nances of the ransomed more than if they had never chafed 
under the sad and distant captivity. Joy breathes in the 
praises of the angels over the repenting, more than over them- 
selves, '^ the ninety and nine who need no repentance." 

The second point of superiority must be reserved for a 
subsequent discourse. Let me conclude with a few words 
suggested by the view of the subject already presented. My 
christian friends, it speaks the language of comfort to you. 
It unravels the great mystery of your suffering ; it shows that 
it is to be the occasion of your joy. Let not your hearts be 
troubled amid the vexations of your present existence. Be 
of good cheer. The tabernacle which now obstructs your 
spiritual vision, and impedes your heavenward flight, is not to 
be your eternal dwelling place. One day " this corruptible 
must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immor- 
tality." The sufferings over which you now grieve shall be 
exchanged for unalloyed bliss, and the lost for whom you 
mourn are reserved to welcome your happy transition to the 
place they have gone to prepare for you. Cease not your 
spiritual warfare day or night, for the crown of a good soldier 
awaits you. Yea, and all these 'Might afflictions, which are 
but for a moment, shall work out for you a far more exceed- 
ing and eternal weight of glory," for it is because you suffer 
so deeply now, that you will joy so exultingly hereafter. 
Grieve not for yourselves, but rather for those who participate 
in no such hopes ; to whom eternity can but aggravate the 
miseries of time, and though the present is to them starless 
and sad, there is a blacker night in the future to which they 
are hastening. To them terrible indeed shall be the incor- 
ruptible body they put on, only endowing them with new 
powers of suffering, and making infinite their capacity for 
wo. To them the contrast of the blessed shall be reversed. 
They shall look back to earth as all their heaven. Its wil- 



188 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS TO THE ANGELS. 

dernesses shall assume a beauty to their distracted gaze. Its 
ignorance shall be deemed bliss compared with present know- 
ledge. Its sorrow^s shall seem joys compared with present 
anguish. But even this heaven of their existence, poor, dark, 
brief though it be, they shall long pray for without avail. 
Earth was all their heaven, and even that is lost forever. 



SERMON III. 



THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN SUPERIOR TO THE ANGELS. 



Know ye not that we shall judge angels? — 1 Cor. 6: 3. 

In the preceding discourse, the sentiment deduced from 
the text and proposed for illustration, was, the superiority of 
saints to angels. A sketch of the history and character of 
angels proved that this superiority is not absolute and entire, 
extending to every feature of the constitution, but is rather 
limited to those particulars which are connected with the 
change from sin to holiness. The first point of superiority 
was stated to be, the consciousness which those who were 
elevated from eartli to heaven might have of great advance- 
ment in their character and condition. This consideration 
was shown to be pertinent from the delight which the mind 
always takes in contemplating its own progress. In the glo- 
rified saints, the principle would be developed in several 
ways. They would rejoice in their dismemberment from the 
body, and in the clear views and enlarged capacities attained 
in their new and exalted nature. They would contrast their 
felicity with the pain and sorrow of earth, and regain the 
treasures which were once torn from them. Above all would 
they exult that they were now free from the captivity of sin — 
that the chains of that great master were at length broken — 
and while they joyed in the unimpeded exercise of present 



190 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

piety, they would bow in sweet humility under the recollec- 
tion of former sin. These are sources of enjoyment to which 
angels in the permanent elevation of their nature, and their 
eternal freedom from sorrow and guilt must be strangers. 

We proceed now to another source of the superior enjoy- 
ment of the saints, and remark, 

II. Christians in heaven will be superior to angels from 
the peculiarly interesting relation they sustain to Christ. 

Christ is the great central attraction of heaven. The 
author of the epistle to the Hebrews enters into an elaborate 
comparison between him and the angels. He shows that he 
has a more exalted name than they, being elevated to the 
privileges of sonship and heirship. He sits upon a throne 
and wields a sceptre, while they are but the ministers of his 
will. The heavens and the earth are represented as the pro- 
duct of his divine workmanship — the finite and fading crea- 
tures of his infinite and eternal power. Above all, and most 
conclusively for his argument, does the apostle appeal to that 
ancient description of the majesty of his kingdom, where '^ a 
fire goeth before him to devour his enemies," there is a vision 
of lightnings and a trembling world, and the hills seem to 
'^ melt like wax," before the awe-inspiring presence of this 
king of kings. Then from the midst of these terrible mani- 
festations, there comes forth the mandate, '^ Let all the angels 
of God worship him." But not only is he superior to angels, 
and the object of their homage ; he is himself God. Mystery 
of mysteries — God and not God ! And not only is he himself 
Jehovah, but Jehovah descending from the throne of his deep 
invisible abstraction, and unveiling himself with peculiar 
beauty to the gaze. The eye that is fixed upon his loveliness 
needs no other light. The soul that dwells under the shadow 
of his mercy-seat can demand no better pavilion. And if 
there be distinction in rank among the various orders of 
heaven, will not those be the most princely, v/ho are nearest 
to this royal head, who bear his mark upon their foreheads. 



TO THE ANGELS. 191 

and carry about with them '^ the white stone on which his 
name is written.'' 

There are many circumstances which seem to indicate, 
that saints in heaven w^ill sustain a personal relation to Christ 
more intimate and interestinor than that of ano^els. Their 
whole career preparatory to that elevation seems fitted to fix 
his image most endearingly upon their hearts, and to make 
him the great essential of their being. Those seasons on 
earth which are most imbued with the spirit of heaven, are 
distinguished for the preciousness and the nearness with 
which his person seems to be revealed. I appeal to some of 
you, whether in those moments of devotion, when the world 
has receded, and '' whether in the body or out of the body 
you could not tell,"' the one clear vision on the eye of your 
soul has not been the face of your Redeemer. And again 
in the seasons of trial and affliction, when the sundering of 
earthly hopes fixed the grieved spirit on the ark of its eternal 
refuge, and, reminded of the loneliness of your pilgrimage 
here, you caught glimpses of ^' the city that is yet to come" — 
Was not the Lamb the chief light thereof, when exultingly 
you exclaimed, that '^ nothing should separate you from the 
love of Christ." If there is any one thing remarkable in the 
triumph of dying Christians, it is the almost invariable uni- 
formity with which they express themselves concerning the 
Saviour. To them he seems arrayed in new beauty. Tired 
and exhausted they lean upon his arm. When they feel that 
the night is dark and the waters are deep, through the shades 
the licrht of his smile is discerned, and thev hear his cheerinor 
voice even while all the waves are passing over them. Some- 
times to those whom death meets suddenly, by the way side, 
on the ocean, though they thought not of their coming doom, 
yet the watchful and all-seeing Guardian seemed with pro- 
phetic beauty to appear to them, and awaken almost uncon- 
sciously those views and hopes which he was soon to reward 
with full fruition. I knew of one not long since who perished 



192 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAIXTS 

thus unexpectedly. The last words heard from him were in 
the bloom of health, and the full flush of earthly promise. 
Yet the expression indicated that he was holding peculiar 
communion with his Saviour, and that he trusted himself with 
newly inspired faith to the care of his covenant Guide. The 
bible that floated ashore from the scene of his terrific death 
had marked as the theme of his recent meditation, the pro- 
mise of the shepherd to support his chosen in the dark valley. 
Who could doubt that He who appeared to him to soothe his 
spirit for its approaching though unexpected conflict, not 
only stood by his side like a minister of mercy in suffering 
and anguish, but transported him to nearer and more blissful 
communion with himself in heaven. 

But let us not rest merely on these prophetic indications. 
Let us again draw aside the veil, and look in upon the views 
and emotions of heaven. We shall find. 

First, That Christians in heaven are permitted to contem- 
plate Christ as their brother. 

^' Verily he took not on him the nature of angels, but he 
"took on him the seed of Abraham." On earth he sympa- 
thized with their sorrows and struggles, with their fruition he 
sympathizes now. In each reminiscence of the past, he has 
with them a fellow-feeling. Once he too found his aspiring 
nature pent up within the w^alls of a fleshly tabernacle. Once 
he too was the victim of disappointment and grief — submit- 
ting his sensitive nature to obloquy and abuse, wandering 
houseless and forsaken till ^' his head was filled with dew, and 
his locks with the drops of the night," groaning in spirit by 
the sepulchre of his companions and friends, and giving up 
the ghost with physical and mental tortures even more than 
man could conceive. Nor did he, spotless and pure though 
he w^as, escape the assaults of the great moral enemy. He 
encountered sin as the great obstacle to his successful mis- 
sion. It met him in the depraved and short-sighted views of 
his chosen, in the sneers and contempt of his enemies. In 



TO THE ANGELS. 193 

the person of the adversary it followed his famished frame to 
the wilderness, it whispered to him the language of rebellion 
in the garden, it stood mocking his agonies upon the cross. 
In that last fearful moment, gathering all its strength and vir- 
ulence, by some mysterious process, it weighed upon his soul 
as if himself had been the guilty, and left him to expire in 
despair. But now, like his beloved, the more exalted and 
glorious is he that he humbled himself so low. *' The cap- 
tain of our salvation is made perfect through sufferings." 
How intimate and how blissful must be the communion be- 
tween this elder brother and the family of his saints. The 
robe he wears is like their own, though infinitely more re- 
splendent. He no doubt appears in that glorified humanity, 
that spiritual corporeity which is the vesture of his saints. 
Such as it appeared on the mount of transfiguration — the 
sunlike visage, and the glistering raiment ; such as it shone 
forth on the morning of the ascension, when a cloud envel- 
oped his unutterable glory ; such as John fainted before, 
when he *^ saw in the midst of the seven candlesticks one like 
unto the son of man," and ^' heard the voice as the sound of 
many waters." Far as the dialects of heaven exceed the im- 
poverished epithets of earth, so far will that outward glory ex- 
ceed our highest imagination. Angels will wonder and adore. 
In their intercourse with the saints we may conjecture that 
their exclamations in view of this ravishing beauty will be 
most delightful. How that form, such a one may say, at- 
tracts to itself the admiring gaze of heaven. ^^ Fairer art thou 
than the children of men. Grace is poured into thy lips. 
God hath blessed thee forever." He is my brother, will be 
the reply. He was my chosen companion and guide, even 
when I saw him not. Ever he stood by my side, unfolding 
the picture of his spotless life, whispering the injunctions of 
his blessed gospel, beckoning to the participation of his own 
inheritance. What was then revealed only to the half-opened 
eye of the soul, has become the blessedness of full vision. I 

17 



194 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

can see him as he is. '^ Beloved, now are we the sons of 
God, but it doth not yet appear what we shall be : but we 
know that when he shall appear, we shall be like him, for we 
shall see him as he is.'' 

Secondly, They will contemplate him as their Redeemer. 

Redemption is probably the great culminating point of the 
universe. From those glimpses which are given us of the 
employments and praises of the upper world, we cannot doubt 
that it is the theme upon which angels most delight to dwell. 
And as it is the praise of heaven, it is no doubt the joy of my- 
riads of worlds unrevealed to us. Only the inhabitants of 
earth may be directly benefited, but it involves principles in 
the divine character and administration, which must attract 
the interest and love of all God's intelliorent creatures. Some 
seraph has no doubt been employed to communicate it even 
to the remotest corner of the creation. For lono- acres the 
universe may have been occupied in solving this great mys- 
tery, and it is worthy of such scrutiny. What an idea to 
dwell upon is that of God coming down in the person of his 
son, not merely to aid men by his example and his sympathy, 
but to suffer for their sins. How distinguishing the grace 
that selected the gloom of midnight in which its rays should 
be revealed. Because we had sunk so low that there was no 
other remedy, this intercessor extended his helping hand, and 
nailed to his own cross the sentence of our doom. Who can 
fathom that sovereign justice which passed by the angels who 
left their first estate, but for man accepted the provisions of 
redeeming love, and brought back the worst of rebels to the 
welcome of the best of sons. Oh ! study it and analyze it as 
we may, bring forth from the store-house of the past its analo- 
gies, and let philosophy pretend to prop up with her theories 
this truth as it is in Jesus — it stands out alone in all history 
— grand, solitary, sublime, baffling all research, putting spec- 
ulation to the blush, and leaving to the inquirer nothing but 
the simple unexplained concession : *' Here mercy and jus- 



TO THE ANGELS. 195 

tice have met together, righteousness and peace have em- 
braced each other." At the cross of Christ, the proud intel- 
lect of man casts oif its arrogance, and asks for the spirit of a 
child. Here intelligences more elevated than ours stand 
abashed as they ponder this production of the infinite intellect 
of Jehovah. And, my brethren, what dignity and honor will 
belong to us, ^^'hen we stand among that blood-bought band, 
and remember that the great work, which extorts the homage, 
though it exhausts the study of all worlds, was devised and 
executed for us. To the eyes of all creatures we shall stand 
forth, as the monuments of infinite grace, and the images of 
our Redeemers love. 

But there is another position than that of honor and digni- 
ty which we shall occupy, yet no less fraught with pleasure 
to ourselves, or endearment to him who gave himself for us. 
It is that humble consciousness that we are not our own, but 
that we are bought with a price. ^' Not unto us, not unto 
us, but to thy great name be all the glory." My friends, 
when we feel deeply indebted to a fellow-being for some bene- 
fit conferred, how is our enjoyment enhanced even by the 
consciousness of unfulfilled obligation. We are so constituted 
that the pleasures of sympathetic gratitude are higher than the 
satisfaction of a full discharge, and the soul never flows with 
such full and free delight, as when it pours itself out in love 
for that which it can never repay. How we delight in the 
presence of our benefactor. With what affectionate interest 
do we listen to his words, and watch his slightest motions. 
How we exult when he is honored, how we rejoice when he 
is glad. Memory dotes on him in his absence, and the glis- 
tening eye follows him even in his far off journeyings. He 
becomes indeed the all in all of our being. Love that finds 
no adequate representation of its depths, that will not dare to 
express itself in words or deeds, lest the poor tribute belie the 
swelling heart — such love returns back to the bosom from 
which it has no outlet, and there it finds a thousand avenues 



196 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

through which to diffuse its streams of joy, and make the life 
of its possessor a perpetual fountain of delights. But an 
apostle has said that no human analogy can reach the love of 
the Son of God. It surpasses the brightest examples of his- 
tory, it transcends the highest conceptions which our poor 
sense of justice will admit. And far as the benefaction of 
our Redeemer is superior to our experience of earthly favors, 
so high must be the gratitude and love which follow our con- 
templations and inspire our praises in another world. There 
is a luxury even in the sense of our own vileness, when that 
poverty becomes rich in the wealth of our Saviour. There 
is a pleasure in the memory of our own sin, when that guilt 
becomes innocence from the reflection of Christ's character, 
and we borrow a lustre and a nutriment from him, as the 
planets beam only in the sun, and the branches live only in 
the vine. 

Thirdly, Jesus is the king of his saints. 

It has been often questioned, whether the relation between 
Christ and his redeemed people will subsist forever. On the 
one hand, predictions of the eternity of his reign are found 
both in the Old and New Testament. On the other, it is dis- 
tinctly intimated in one passage, that a period of consumma- 
tion shall arrive, when the mediator shall lay dov/n his office, 
and surrender his kino-dom unto the Father. In order to re- 
concile these two assertions, it has been said that the eternity 
predicated of Christ's reign is only relative, and designates 
merely a protracted and not an endless duration. But the 
moment we admit such license with reference to eternity 
predicated of the future state, that moment we overthrow the 
barriers of legitimate interpretation, and leave room for a host 
of conjectures concerning the limits of future punishment. I 
suppose rather that the limit which seems to be assigned to 
Christ's reign, is the limit affixed to his official work as Me- 
diator. Until the day of judgment he has the power of stand- 
ing as a daysman between the sinner and his God, After that 



TO THE ANGELS, 197 

period, — fearful truth to those who have not availed them- 
selves of it before, — his redemption is no longer proffered to 
the lost. Justice seals up its dreadful account, and ceases to 
commune with mercy. *' There remaineth no more sacrifice 
for sin." As a mediator for the future Christ lays down his 
office, but as the mediator of the past he can never cease to 
shine with distinct and personal glory. Neither reason nor 
scripture authorize the belief that his peculiar relation to his 
chosen will ever terminate, or that there can be a period when 
he shall lay down all his official honors, and sink into the in- 
distinguishable godhead. Ever distinct and palpable will he 
no doubt be to the vision of the redeemed, the continued and 
ceaseless object of their homage and their praise. It is the 
Lamb himself that shall lead them and guide them, and wipe 
all tears from their eyes. 

Nor is it unreasonable to suppose that there are purposes 
to be fulfilled by this eternal reign, purposes as yet unreveal- 
ed to us, but in accomplishing which, we shall have peculiar 
interest and instrumentality. We cannot suppose that God 
is then any more than now to act by immediate power, fulfil- 
ling his glorious plans, accomplishing his stupendous work, 
by the efficacy of his simple word. He will not surround 
himself with myriads of exalted creatures, merely to be gazed 
at and admired. He does not design that they shall sit down, 
the idle and inactive spectators of his operations, but he gives 
them a work fitted to command such energies and faculties 
as theirs. This is the economy of heaven. And we, my 
brethren, delighting as we do in our Saviour's service on earth, 
willing to tread in the footsteps of his sorrow if we may but 
honor his name, what must be our happiness, when without 
the impediments which check us here, we submit our new- 
created and exalted powers to be controlled and directed by 
him forever. That child of Christ on earth, who is permitted 
the honor of bearing his gospel across the ocean, and pro- 
claiming its glad news to some remote and benighted idola- 

17* 



198 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

tor, feels that it is a joyous and well-paid service, though he 
encounters peril and reproach, and after all lays down his 
bones among the mountains, long before the ^^ fruits are seen 
to shake like Lebanon." How must he be delighted when he 
finds himself endowed with physical properties which know 
no fatigue — able at the will of his king to travel over space, 
to rove among stars and suns on his errands of love, and to 
spend eternity in those princely duties which are already 
marked out for us, though ear hath not heard, nor heart con- 
ceived their number and their vastness. In the councils of 
that kingdom, we no doubt shall be admitted to an intimacy 
greater than that of angels, and in the prosecution of its plans, 
w^e shall be the chief administrators. How the benevolent 
heart must glow with the prospect of eternal action, and we 
who know not how we can admire too much the love of Christ 
as it has already been revealed, may yet be employed in aid- 
ing him on similar projects, which his exhaustless and infinite 
goodness may suggest. 

Contrast the humblest saint who comes home from his 
earthly pilgrimage to heaven with the highest archangel who 
ministers before the throne. He glorious in holiness, splendid 
in beauty, terrible in power ! We would not diminish the 
height of his elevation, or impair the lustre of his crown. But 
who is this that comes toil-worn and timid from terrestrial 
strugglings, and upon whose unprepared vision the glories of 
the upper world are bursting in their full effulgence. That 
song of angels which ceases neither day or night — we w^ould 
not detract from its harmony or its significance. " Holy, holy, 
holy. Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come. 
Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory, and honor, and 
power, for thou hast created all things, and for thy pleasure 
they are and were created." Verily the majesty of the In- 
visible is deserving of such homage ; and the wonders of 
creation even of old waked into melody the sons of God, when 
with the morning-stars they *^ shouted and sang together for 



TO THE AXGELS. 199 

joy." Yet there is a song more rapturous and elevated, such 
as breaks from the lips of the new inmate, and is echoed by 
the s}Tnpathetic choir of the saints, until all heaven rings with 
the gladsome acclamation, " Worthy the Lamb that was slain, 
for he has redeemed me by his blood." John seems to have 
had glimpses of this superiority in his apocalyptic vision. He 
speaks of *^ a new song that no man could learn but the hun- 
dred and forty and four thousand that were redeemed from 
the earth." He means that althoucrh ano^els are constrained 
to join in that song, it has a significance which they can never 
learn. Their well trained voices may harmonize with the 
music of the saints, but there is a melody of the soul un- 
awakened in them, a chord of the heart untouched. They 
can never say, This Lamb was slain for us. Accordingly 
their position is represented as not in such immediate prox- 
imity to the throne of Jesus. The nearest to that seat of 
honor are those who represent the church of the redeemed. 
They commence the new and exalted strain, '^ Thou art wor- 
thy to take the book, and to open the seals thereof: for thou 
wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of 
every kindred and tongue and people and nation, and hast 
made us unto our God kings and priests : and we shall reign 
on the earth." Next after them, the angels who form a cir- 
cle around, unable to repress their sympathy and admiration, 
to the number of '' ten thousand times ten thousand and thou- 
sands of thousands," cry with a loud voice, ^^ Worthy is the 
Lamb that was slain to receive power and riches and wisdom 
and strength and honor and glory and blessing." And final- 
ly the whole intelligent universe is introduced as uniting in 
this glorious tribute, and the chorus that swells all hearts and 
voices is, '* Blessing and honor and glory and power be unto 
him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb forever 
and ever." 

This subject commends itself, in the first place, to such 



200 SUPERIORITY OF THE SAINTS 

as are permitted to indulge these hopes and anticipations 
for themselves. ^^ What manner of persons ought they to be.'^ 
What self-respect, what consciousness of their own dignity, 
should they wear in all their demeanor. How ought they 
to look upon their brethren who are heirs with them of the 
same promises. It is to this use that the apostle chiefly ap- 
plies the consideration, reproving the dissensions that had 
arisen among the disciples of Jesus. And it calls this church 
to a holy union. That brother of yours whom you wound by 
your opprobrium, is destined to the honors of a judge in the 
New Jerusalem. That weak and ignorant child of God, whom 
you pass by as beneath your notice, has a robe reserved for 
him and a crown more princely than earthly courts can boast. 
When you meet him at the table of your Redeemer, remem- 
ber he shall one day be admitted to his council-chamber, and 
drink with him the new wine in the kingdom ot his Father. 
Angels may yet take up the song after that slighted one, as 
they have already rejoiced over his repentance. Oh ! my 
brethren, what strange beings we are ! Should we go through 
life with our heads bowed down under sorrow, if we thought 
of that tearless paradise? Should we become so easy a prey 
to temptation, and suffer men to speak lightly of our princi- 
ples and our piety, if we reflected on the purity to which 
we are destined, and the high rank on which we bring 
dishonor ? Should we commune so seldom and so coldly 
with our Saviour, if we remembered that he is to be one day 
the fulness of our joy, and that angels might long for our near- 
ness to him w^ithout attaining it 1 No ! my brethren, we 
should walk erect and joyous, so that men might know us by 
the dignity of our mien, by the beaming of our eye, by the 
eloquent expression of our features, all of them showing the 
world, that we are already subsisting on heavenly food. We 
should fly from sin as not to be glanced at by the expectants 
of superangelic purity. We should cling to Jesus as if our 
nearness to his throne in heaven were to be measured by our 



TO THE AXGELS. 201 

nearness to his cross and his ahar on earth. Even here we 
should catch some strains of that new song of the redeemed, 
Eind released from the fear of death, our souls would often 
pant with restless aspirings for that brighter and better por- 
tion with Christ. 

Finally, our subject appeals in the language of affectionate 
invitation to such as have yet no title to this blessed inheri- 
tance. My friends, religion often comes to you in a voice of 
terror, and it is but just that the terrors of the law should be 
sounded in the ears of the slumbering and the dead. But to- 
day, she comes arrayed in her best white robe, and with a 
voice of mild entreaty. She holds out to you a crown brighter 
than that of angels. She brings to your ear strains of celes- 
tial music. She beckons you to the marriage-supper of the 
Lamb. Behold ! all things are now ready. And Jesus has 
expended his most costly sacrifice, that he might purchase 
you a seat at the table of his chosen. Will you, can you, 
slight the invitation, and turn away from the price of blood, 
and the songs of heaven, and the voices of the dead, till the 
door shall be forever shut ? 



NOTE. 

The two preceding discourses were finished Feb. 21, 1840. In a 
letter of the same date he says, "This week I have been writing a 
double sermon from 1 Cor. 6: 3, 'Know ye not that we shall judge 
angels r' The thought of my departed friend, Mr. Brown, was con- 
stantly with me. I could not refrain from making direct allusion to him, 
as the prophetic indications of his death seemed to speak definitely of 
his reward with the Shepherd.'' The sermons were preached at South 
Berwick, May 10, 1840 ; and aflerwards at Danvers, Mass. Under 
date May 15, 1840, he writes, " Last sabbath, I preached the two ser- 
mons I gave you to read, and they seemed to produce very considera- 
ble impression ; much more than I expected. As I was making a 
pastoral visit the next day, a lady said to me, *■ were you acquainted 
with that Mr. Brown of Boston, to whom you alluded in your after- 
noon discourse ?' I need not tell you how the question affected me." 



SERMON IV. 



THE CHARACTER AND CONDITION OF TPIE SINNER 
WHO IS NEARLY A CHRISTIAN. 



Thou art not far from the kingdom of god. — Mark 12: 34. 

These words were addressed to a well educated and inter- 
esting young man, in the crowd of cavilers and sceptics, who 
on a certain occasion had gathered around Jesus. He alone 
stood forth among the captious and the scoffing, as a sincere 
inquirer for the truth. Most pleasing must have been the 
spectacle afforded by that kind and conciliatory dialogue. 
Most eloquent must have been the approval which kindled in 
the Saviour's eye, as he saw that " the young man answered 
discreetly." Beautiful, yet not unmixed with sadness is the 
brief expression, " Thou art not far from the kingdom of 
God." 

As in many other cases of scriptural narrative, we have here 
but the fragment of an individual's history. The sacred pen- 
man often gives but a rapid sketch, only sufficient to attract 
our affections, and then draws the veil over the prospect. We 
just learn to love the man, when we lose his features amid 
the crowd through which we are rapidly hurried ; and we 
trace in vain his progress and his destination. Yet for that 
very reason, more deep may be the impression and more varied 
the instruction from the single and imperfect portraiture. 



THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 203 

Imaorination may seize upon some trifling incident, and fill 
up the out]ine, and vet the conviction will remain that the 
reality may have been far otherwise. Thus to the rich young 
man to whom Jesus addressed the reproof, '* one thing thou 
lackest," we generally attribute a continued and final impen- 
itence. We are distrustful of the fascination of wealth, and 
we doubt if a youth would turn from them, for the disciple- 
ship of such a master. And yet who knows that the reproof 
may not have sunk deep into his heart, and there exerted its 
appropriate influences, until he sacrificed his possessions on 
the altar of Christ. Very different is the customary appre- 
hension of the incident in our text. We hear no more of the 
young inquirer, and yet so pleased are we with his spirit, that 
we picture out for him a happy end. We receive the im- 
pression that he who knew so well the significance of the old 
law, could not have been long in feeling the beauty of the 
new; that he who was '^not far from the kingdom of God,'' 
would soon have been a member of that blessed community. 
And yet, for aught we know, a thousand incidents in the slug- 
orish tendencies of the heart, in the dangers and difficulties 
attendant on a profession of Christianity, may have conspired 
to retard his prosrress, and death may have overtaken him 
with his hand on the door of the sanctuary, and yet before he 
had stepped within its blessed portal. 

If Christ should appear in our own day, I think it beyond 
a question, that such a group might be gathered around him 
from this congregation. Here perhaps would be the hard- 
ened and captious, striving like the Scribes and Pharisees to 
entangle him in his talk. If they hear not Moses and the 
apostles, neither would they be persuaded though Christ him- 
self should appear to them. Here too would be the serious, 
well-disposed, religious sinner, attracted by the beauty of his 
Saviour's countenance, and admiring the wisdom of his speech. 
You might see him following about the divine instructor, 
watching his motions, hanging upon his lips, seeking to touch, 



204 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 

if it might be, the hem of his garment, and attracting atten- 
tion by his earnest gaze, and his sincere inquiries. Yet 
would there not be a shade of sadness in the divine address 
to him, " Thou art not far from the kingdom of God." 

It becomes then an interesting topic of inquiry, what are 
the characteristics of one to whom the lancruao-e of the text 
applies, and what are the errors and dangers to which he is 
peculiarly exposed ? 

I. I propose to describe the individual who is " not far 
from the kingdom of God." 

First, He is distinguished for a moral and amiable life. 
There are many imxpenitent men whose characters have been 
most beautifully cultivated, by the refininof influences of social 
life. To the eye of the world, there is a perfect symmetry in 
their moral developments. Quick are they in the apprehension 
of external duty, prompt in its performance. There is a perpet- 
ual sunshine about their walk. Under the influences of these 
moral graces, there is a proximate cultivation v\-hich may be 
tendincr to holiness. I do not sav that of itself it ever will or 
ever can secure holiness. I do not denv that it often brings 
with it a self-confidence which is the very opposite of convic- 
tion for sin. I only mention it as one among the several in- 
fluences, with which God may be moving upon the heart of 
the sinner, and putting him in the position most elevated in it- 
self, and most favorable to conversion. At the same time it 
must be admitted that there is no unvarying uniformity in the 
divine operations, and that the spirit often impresses truth 
upon men of a very diflerent character. We sometimes see 
the abandoned suddenly and in a moment rescued from the 
lowest depths of vice. The very flagrancy of the crime, the 
very awfulness of the blasphemy, the very solitude in which 
the criminal finds himself an outcast from society may be the 
means of awakening the horrors of conscience, and sending 
him a trembling penitent to the cross. The immoral man 
must not feel oblicred to wait until he has corrected his moral 



THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 205 

habits and cultivated his tastes before he gives his heart to 
God, but he should be urged to shake off his vice and his im- 
penitence together, and at once to become a Christian. Yet 
such a one could not be appropriately described as " not 
far from the kingdom of God." It is the greatest miracle of 
divine mercy that he is ever saved. The tendencies of his 
habits are all to put far off the period of his conversion. He 
is enervating his susceptibilities, and blunting his conscience, 
and barring up the avenues through which religion might 
enter his soul. If by divine grace such a brand is plucked 
from the burning, there is no moral proximity of his pre- 
vious to his subsequent condition. Only to those can our 
text apply who are exercising their higher susceptibilities 
upon what there is of good in the objects of a virtuous life. 
To the man who is scrupulously living up to the relations of 
society, who sincerely designs to be a good father, a useful 
citizen, an honorable and benevolent man ; who has a heart 
as warm and pure and kind as w^e sometimes see even in the 
unregenerate ; to such a one can be most forcibly presented 
the importance of fidelity in his relations to God. He whose 
conscience is sensitive to violations of moral duty, and who 
makes rectitude and honor the rule of his outward conduct, 
might be expected to open his heart most readily to the re- 
proofs of the divine law, and most promptly to cease from a 
career as base as it is sinful. Such a one may be said, so far 
as moral character is concerned, to be *^ not far from the 
kingdom of God." 

Secondly, He is a believer in the fundamental doctrines of 
Christianity. 

Morality presents little claim to the character described in 
our text, if it be joined with unbelief That is enough to 
counteract all the good tendencies of amiable and virtuous 
life. Ordinarily faith and goodness, (I mean what the world 
calls goodness,) go hand in hand, and this is well for those 
who would establish the political expediency of correct be- 

18 



206 THE ALMOST CHRIST [AN. 

lief. And yet as if to show what antagonist powers there 
are ever in human nature, the world has seen some splendid 
examples of private and public virtue conjoined with mon- 
strous errors in religion. Such a one is very far from the 
kingdom of God. His susceptibilities may work right in their 
sphere, but the sphere is wrong. His conscience may be 
most accurate and regular in its action, but it is under the 
guidance of a perverted understanding, and supplied with in- 
adequate data for its judgments. His moral system has lost 
its balance. The wheels move regularly, but wrong. If 
such a one is converted, it is because conscience will some- 
times assert for the moment its supremacy over the under- 
standing, and religion will press its way through some secret 
crevices to the heart, in spite of the mailed unbelief which 
invests it. If we sometimes see individuals denying some of 
the essential doctrines of Christianity until after their conver- 
sion, such cases are extremely rare, and all the previous pro- 
babilities are against them. Ordinarily we must believe be- 
fore we are baptized with the Spirit. We are sanctified 
through the truth. Not that every mystery of religion is to 
be comprehended — not that every dogma of the schools is to 
be subscribed to — not that the most spiritual and elevated 
doctrines of our faith can ever be fully appreciated by the 
carnal heart. But it is demanded that there should be a spec- 
ulative assent to all the fundamental truths of our religion — 
such truths as relate to the character and law of God, the na- 
ture and duty and destiny of the human soul, the redemption 
provided by Jesus Christ. And he who admits that he is a 
sinner, that his duty is to become holy, and that his only hope 
for pardon is in the merits of Jesus — such a one so far as re- 
ligious opinion is concerned, is ^' not far from the kingdom 
of God." 

Thirdly, He who is not far from the kingdom of God has a 
determination to become a Christian at some future time. 

The cold assent of the understanding to the truths of reli- 



THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 207 

gion, may be given by one who is in fact very far from the 
kingdom of God. There are many men of exemplary morali- 
ty and unexceptionable orthodoxy, who never dream of re- 
ceiving any practical lessons from the doctrines of their faith. 
The truths they admit, do not go down into the depths of the 
soul, to awaken feeling, to stimulate to resolution, to gird for 
action. Particularly is this true of many intellectual sinners. 
They acknowledge the grandeur of our religious scheme, 
they bow down in speculative humility before the doctrines of 
the cross, they love to exercise their powers upon the great 
themes of the bible, but of a personal appeal to the heart from 
all this array of light they are never sensible. Practical re- 
ligion, they imagine, will do well enough for the lower order 
of minds, but for themselves no melting entreaty ever sounds 
in their ears, *' Seek ye my face,'^ to which the soul responds, 
" thy face Lord will I seek." Neither can this description 
apply to that large class who cherish some vague and distinct 
hope of heaven, with no definite idea of the means of obtain- 
ing it ; who cheat themselves with dreams of a reward while 
they think not of girding for the only effort which can se- 
cure it. To such characters our text has no application. 
They are like the man whom the pilgrim saw crossing the 
river of death in a ferry boat, instead of breasting its current, 
and feeling its dark waves pass over him. No angels meet 
him on the shore — no scroll is in his bosom — no gate opens 
at his knocking. But to those whom the doctrines of our re- 
ligion approach with a personal appeal, to whom the cross 
gives a tender conscience, who feel constrained at times to fol- 
low in the way of duty, though it be with trembling hesitation, 
and who keep the eye steadily fixed on the strait gate with a 
determination to enter it before they die ; — to such Christ 
comes with the address in our text. And such a one, so far 
as general purpose is concerned, is '^ not far from the king- 
dom of God." 

Fourthly, He is diligent in using the means of grace. 



208 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 

A distant and vague resolution, if it call for no immediate ef- 
fort, is not enough to meet the description in the text. Nay, so 
far as it is prospective, it may be the very means of fixing the 
sinner in his condition of stupidity, and making procrastina- 
tion the thief and the murderer of his eternal interests. But 
there are moments in the history of every sinner when the res- 
olution just described assumes a definite form, and the claims 
of God press themselves with immediateness upon the soul. 
At such an hour sin looks terrible to the eye. The memory 
of past ingratitude and impenitence, and the consciousness of 
present guilt, sit brooding upon the soul, and at times weigh 
it down almost with the burden of despair. The long neg- 
lected bible becomes the chief companion, and there are lines 
of light upon all its pages, blazing in upon the conscience, 
kindling its terrors of retribution, or demanding the instant 
performance of duty. The house of God wears an aspect of 
sombre solemnity, and the voice of the preacher stirs up 
depths in the soul which have never before been reached. 
The Spirit of God is very near, and angels are watching for 
the result of the moral conflict. The sinner feels that the 
harvest season of his soul has arrived, and he is determined 
not to let it pass by unimproved. He prays with an agony 
of soul, lest the Spirit leave him to hardness of heart, and 
final reprobation. And such a one is in possession of the 
chief characteristic of an almost christian ; and so far as the 
ordinary preliminaries of conversion are concerned, he is cer- 
tainly '^ not far from the kingdom of God." 

I have thus set before you, my friends, the traits which dis- 
tinguish one who is '' not far from the kingdom of God." He 
who is marked by only one of these qualities may be favora- 
bly situated so far as that one is concerned, but by the ab- 
sence of others, the good influence may be counteracted, and 
he may be set with his face and his footsteps downward. 
Chiefly on him who combines all these characteristics would 
the Saviour turn his affectionate gaze, and to the mored, ortho- 



THE AL3I0ST CHRISTIAN. '209 

dox, sensitive, convicted sinner would address the language 
of the text. To such a one, most tender and affectionate 
should be our appeal. Our hearts yearn over him with pecu- 
liar fondness. We gaze with pleasure on his pure life, the 
faith he embraces is the licrht of our souls, we love to avail 
ourselves of a heart so open to the truth, and above all we re- 
joice that he seems in earnest for the salvation of his soul. 
Yet we rejoice with trembling. Not for worlds would we 
have him rush into a career of vice, or become the victim of 
error, or steel his heart against the personal appeals of 
the gospel, or relapse into his old stupidity and indifference. 
But we tremble for him, lest his promising position become 
the crrave of his soul. 

n. I proceed therefore to point out some errors and dan- 
crers incident to the condition described in the text. 

First, This condition does not imply, as is often supposed, 
the commencement of holiness in the heart. 

The error on this point is more frequently a practical than 
a speculative one. The line of distinction between the Chris- 
tian, and the awakened, conscientious and outwardly obedient 
sinner, is to many minds exceedingly narrow. It seems hard 
to treat him like a miserable rebel against God. There is a 
disposition to mistake his seriousness and tenderness of spirit 
for the first breathincrs of true reliorion, to feel that his load of 
guilt is in part removed, that he is already within the thresh- 
old of the kinardom. But what is reliorion? Does it con- 
sist in fidelity to the obligations of social life, while the love 
of God is absent from the soul? Does it enthrone itself in 
the intellect to receive with a cold assent the truths of the 
gospel, while the heart sends back no beatings of sympathy 
for the holy theme ? Does it waste itself in purposes of 
amendment, while sin still holds the life in its iron grasp? 
Or does it beat about in feverish exertions after holiness, and 
mad conflicts with the moral enemy, which only prove the 
desperateness of a long cherished depravity, and the depth of 

18* 



210 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 

a still linorerinDr fondness ? No ! reliction lives not in one or 
all of these previous states. It acknowledges no fellowship 
with the virtue w^hich can subsist in the depraved nature of 
man. It stands aloof from every moral exercise w^hich would 
take it by the hand, and press it into unholy union with it- 
self It will accept of nothing short of an entire consecra- 
tion to God. It will not divide the throne of the affections 
with any other claimant. Its mastery must be supreme or 
not at all. To him who is not yet its subject, w^hatever be 
his moral position, it comes only with the stern undeviating 
command, repent — turn — live. It has no preparatory ser- 
vices to enjoin, no walking in the way to the way which it 
can encourage. It knows no compromise or treaty with him 
who is '' not far from the kingdom of God." Moral sinner, 
it comes to thee, stripping off the beautiful robe with which 
thou hast hidden thy deformity, and commanding thee to 
heal thy wounded heart. Believing sinner, it comes to thee, 
showing how superficial and empty is thy faith, and command- 
ing thee to show thy faith by thy w^orks. Resolving sin- 
ner, it has a voice for thee, ringing in thine ear the death- 
knell of thy hopes for the future, and bidding thee this in- 
stant, resolve and do. And for thee, convicted one, it has ten 
thousand voices of entreaty and alarm. They sound in thine 
ear amid the worship of the sanctuary, they break forth from 
hills and forests as thou walkest abroad among the speaking 
works of thy Father. In the retirement of the closet, they 
come swelling up in whispers of despair, and they startle thy 
slumbers in the visions of the night. Say, sinner, do they 
bring thee the language of comfort and complacency, as to 
one already at peace with God, or do they not hover with ra- 
ven-wing about thy soul, as if determined to give thee no 
peace till thou hast done the great duty. 

Secondly, This condition does not necessarily lead to true 
religion. 

There are many who admit that these preparatory steps do 



THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 211 

not involve the elements of piety, yet imagine that they infal- 
libly secure them. According to such, regeneration is a grad- 
ual change, involving a series of moral processes. He who 
steps within the magic range, although he is not supposed to 
be converted until he has crossed its utmost limit, is consid- 
ered safe from the further accumulation of guilt, and sure of 
attaining the desired goal. Such persons seem to suppose 
that the more protracted the convictions, the more radical 
and thorough will be the conversion. They are suspicious 
of these sudden changes. They encourage the awakened 
sinner to press on per sever ingly in the good way he has be- 
gun, and he may hope for light in the end. But what saith the 
scripture ? ''The word is nigh thee even in thy mouth and in 
thy heart." Our religion is one which calls for no pilgrimage 
to the holy sepulchre, for no long routine of forms and pen- 
ances, for no imposition of holy hands, or external ordinances, 
before it can be received into the heart. Upon the con- 
science of every moral being, if it press at all, it presses this 
instant with its whole weight of obligation. And every sinner 
who lingers on the way, or hurries on without hurrying in, 
though his face be towards the house of refuge, is rendering 
his arrival more uncertain by each moment's delay. How 
can we encourage such a one as free from spiritual danger, 
when we know that he is a sinner against God ? How can 
we hold out to him the certain prospect of pardon and salva- 
tion, when we know that life is not sure beyond the present 
moment, and should he be hurried unrcgenerate, though on 
the way to conversion, before the bar of his Maker, the bible 
furnishes no plea with regard to these indifferent acts, and as- 
signs no compartment in heaven to the almost christian. How 
can we whisper peace to his anxiety, when we know that the 
last struggle in the moral nature is perhaps the most fearful 
of all, and that a thousand temptations to fatal delay or to ob- 
stinate relapse may be environing him. Satan rages, for his 
time is short — and who knows but that the principles of the 



212 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 

old man inflamed in the conflict, may drag him back to har- 
dened impenitence, and his last state shall become worse 
than the first. 

Thirdly, The condition is one which involves peculiar 
guilt. 

Guilt cannot be estimated absolutely. We have no right 
to measure by rule the sin of any man, or to compare mathe- 
matically the deserts of one condition of guilt with those of 
another. Yet we are authorized to draw out the peculiar 
circumstances of aggravation which accompany each case of 
iniquity, and we may say that in some respects one sinner is 
more culpable than another. One of our rules of moral judg- 
ment is, that blame is proportioned to the degree of light en- 
joyed by the criminal. Not that we exculpate the exaspera- 
ted man, who commits a murder while his reason is deranged 
by passion, or that we place him on the whole in a lower 
gradation of wickedness than the assassin who proceeds de- 
liberately to the deed of death. But we locate the chief guilt 
of the involuntary transgressor farther back, and we say that 
in the act itself the man who strikes coolly, while all the prin- 
ciples of his better nature are rallying for his rescue, over- 
comes more moral barriers in his way to ruin, and is so far 
a guiltier man. Just so is it in the case of the sinner. The 
awakened and anxious persist in impenitence amid clearer 
and stronger inducements to immediate rectitude, than they 
who are slumbering on in the lethargy of sin. We do not 
say that the moral man is absolutely more culpable and de- 
graded than the vicious and abandoned. Far otherwise may 
be our belief; far otherwise may be the view of the all-seeing 
Judge. But inasmuch as in him, the gospel comes in con« 
tact with healthier sensibilities, with a nature acute in its per- 
ception of duty, with habits of prompt obedience, so far it is 
easier for him to comply with the demands of heaven, and so 
far it involves a greater sin, if he turn away from them with 
scorn and neglect. So too the believer of gospel truth may 



THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 213 

be far less decrraded in his moral nature, and an object of 
greater complacency, than the votary of idolatrous and ob- 
scure rites, or the victim of an erroneous faith. Yet, against 
him there is this one plea of resisting greater light, and from the 
shrines of barbarous idolatry and the sanctuaries of a corrup- 
ted faith, there shall rise up multitudes to utter against him 
the fearful malediction, " You knew your duty, but you would 
not do it." And my hearers, I would not for a moment de- 
tract from the guilt of hardened and stupid impenitence, nor 
do I know of a condition more awful, than that of him who 
goes to the bar of God from the long unbroken slumbers of 
spiritual death. And yet there is one view in which the con- 
victed sinner presents a spectacle more odious, and stands 
charcred with hiorher criminality. He is in the midst of a 
flood of light which sends no rays into the prison house of the 
careless and secure. On his soul there beams new lus- 
tre from the throne of a forgiving Father. To his vision is 
revealed the cross of Christ, with a glory encirclinor it such 
as the world cannot behold, and the meek sufferer seems to 
fix on him an eye of peculiar fondness. Voices of unwonted 
eloquence blend themselves with the voice of his conscience, 
when the Spirit and the bride at this solemn hour whisper 
their persuasive invitation. Sin no longer wears its flatter- 
ing and attractive garb. Hell sends in its notes of warning, 
and bids him seize the present instant. On which side so- 
ever he turns, he beholds a beckoning hand, and hears a be- 
seechincr voice. And yet he sins. He is an aicakcncd sin- 
ner — but an awakened sinner. Oh ! is not this cruilt — is it 
not madness ? Is it not an insult to the throne of grace, and 
the cross of Christ, that unveil to him their matchless splen- 
dors ? Is it not a new thorn in the Saviour's crown, or a new 
nail in his hands and feet ? Is it not a fio^htinor aorainst the 
gracious Spirit of God ? Is it not a planting of the soul, in 
the midst of all that could allure or urge, only to show the 
desperate obstinacy of its sin, and to heap upon itself new 
measures of the wrath of God ? 



214 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 

Finally, The misery of those who perish from such a con- 
dition will be peculiarly great. 

It has already been shown, that there is no security of a 
favorable result. On the contrary, there may be a relapse to 
impenitence, and death may overtake the sinner before he 
has found peace with God. Peculiarly embittered must be 
his recollections of the past, when he finds his gloomy ac- 
count sealed up. If there be an hour of agony to the soul, 
it is when it calls up the successive steps of its own dark his- 
tory, and finds how near it often was to the very highway of 
salvation. So close upon heaven — and still it is torn away 
with no prospect of restoration. 

In one of the terrible calamities, lately occurring on our 
Northern waters, there w^as a man who perished in circum- 
stances of peculiar aggravation. He had been long absent 
from his native land, and the home of his affection. For years 
he had been wrestling with dangers at a distance from those 
whom he loved. He had met death in the uproar of storm 
and shipwreck, but death had not claimed him for its victim. 
He had been caught in the hideous embrace of the pestilence, 
but he conquered there. Peril and disease chased after him 
in his journeyings, but a charm seemed to hang about his 
person, and he escaped scarred but vigorous. And now full 
of gratitude for his past deliverances, and buoyant with an- 
ticipations of a joyous meeting, he was hastening home from 
his long exile, to the friends that would glow more brightly 
at his return. But a fearful death was in reserve for him on 
the very threshold of his home. At an hour when he least 
thought of it, yet an hour so hemmed in by an all-wise Pro- 
vidence from every prospect of relief, and when the opposing 
elements seemed combined for the general destruction, he 
saw that he must die. As he sunk into the cold wave, and 
the torpor of death stole over him, his eye seemed to discern 
upon the neighboring shore, the glimmering of his own fire- 
side, and he could almost hear the welcome voices of those 



THE ALMOST CHRISTIAX. 215 

who looked out at the lattice for his coming. Alas ! it was 
a hard thing thus to perish, just as his arms were stretched 
out to embrace the long lost and almost recovered treasures 
of his heart. And, my friends, do you not suppose he would 
rather have found his grave in mid ocean, than on the very 
shores of his nativity ? Would it not have been happier for 
him to sink do\Mi under lingering disease, so far away from 
the hearts that yearned over him that his last hours would 
have been haunted by no visions of their presence, than to 
lay his head on that icy pillow, while they whom he soucrht 
seemed to bend over him so closely, yet unable to smooth his 
rough bed, or to ease the pathway for his burial. 

And so it is with the man who comes, like the prodigal, to 
the threshold of his paternal mansion, to the sight of his 
father's outstretched arms, only to linger and perish before 
he reaches the safe enclosure, or the forCTivinor embrace. He 
goes do^^Tl to perdition with the songs of heaven sounding in 
his ears, and amid the visions of angels taking up their harps 
to joy over his repentance. Sad, sad indeed is the last fare- 
well he bids to " the peace that passeth knowledge." And 
agonizing will be the reminiscence of that one spot in his 
moral history, where the influence of earth and heaven all 
combined to bring him to the very gate of paradise, while now 
he finds himself a more miserable outcast, in consequence of 
the elevation from which he falls. 

And now, brother, thou to whom Christ addresses the lan- 
guage of the text, " Thou art not far from the kingdom of 
God.'' I wander not from the spirit *^{ his affection, when I 
sound these warnings in thine ears. I mean it not unkindly 
when I tell thee, — Thou art not a Christian, and thou art not 
sure of becoming a Christian. New guilt is staining thy gar- 
ment, and heart-rending will be thy doom unless it be speed- 
ily washed away. In Christ's stead, I stand here to-day to 
beseech thee without delay to become reconciled to God. In 
Christ's name, I assure thee of the fondness with which the 



216 THE ALMOST CHRISTIAN. 

church contemplates thy character and condition — not vile 
and odious, but moral and kind ; not faithless, but believing ; 
not cold and careless, but determined and anxious. She 
would cherish thy virtues, and confirm thy faith, and light up 
thy face with the smiles of hope. Yet it is for such as thee 
that the church weeps, and bows down in the dust, and can 
give herself no rest, in thy lingering delay. There is danger 
on every side of thee but one. If thou return to thine old sin, 
certain ruin yawns for thee, for if such as thou scarcely 
escape, what shall become of the hardened and the aban- 
doned. If thou stand still, '^ sin lieth at the door," ready to 
rush in upon thy slumbers and bind thee v, ith new chains. 
If thou press on in thy present strugglings, thou hast but 
found new avenues to death, and a new weight is accumulat- 
ing on thy soul. There is but one way for thee, and that is — 
Repent. There is but one hope for thee, and that is the 
grace of God. '^ Oh ! Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself — 
but in me is thy help." In Thee, blessed God is their help. 



NOTE. 

The preceding sermon, the fifth which Mr. Homer ever wrote, v/as 
the first which he ever preached. It was delivered at Sherburne, 
Mass. March 29, 1840; afterwards at Boston, Salem St. church; at 
South Berwick, May 17, 1840; at Dover, N. H. ; at Danvers, Mass.; 
at Buffalo, N. Y.; and at Exeter, N. H. 



SERMOX V. 



FITXESS OF THE MEDIATOR TO BE THE JUDGE OF 
THE WORLD. 



And hath given him authority to execute judgment also, be- 
cause HE is the son of :\ian. — John 5 : 27. 

The phrase *^ Son of Man," here denotes the Messiahship 
of Jesus. It is a title borrowed from the circumstance of his 
humanity although not exclusively referring to that part of 
his nature. The Son of God was most fond of describincr 
himself by this humble appellation, and it is remarkable that 
in the New Testament, it is used in this sense by no other 
person. 

The scriptures very cleary predict that a day is coming 
when God shall judge the w^orld ; and they uniformly attri- 
bute to Christ the office of presiding on that august occasion. 
They speak of him as '* ordained of God to be the judge of 
quick and dead." And our text states the reason of the di- 
vine appointment, ** because he is the Son of Man." It will 
be the object of this discourse to develope more fully the idea 
of the text, and to show that 

The office of the fmal judge is appropriated with peculiar 
fitness to the Messiah. 

There are three great aspects in which Jesus the Messiah 
is presented to our view. He is God, he is man, he is God- 

19 



218 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE VrORLD. 

man. The scriptures describe these qualities as distinct and 
perfect, and yet uniting in mysterious harmony in the same 
individual. He is represented as God. The name of the 
Supreme is attached to him under circumstances that admit 
of no qualification. The worhs ascribed to him are such as ex- 
torted from the Psalmist the devout acknowledgement — '^Jeho- 
vah how excellent thy name in all the earth." The analysis of 
his attributes proves that he possesses qualities such as could 
be shared only by the Infinite and the Eternal. And all men 
are commanded to " honor the Son even as they honor the 
Father.'' He is represented as man. History, profane as 
w^ell as sacred, has recorded his name as that of one who trode 
upon the earth, and wore the form and features and spoke 
the language of our nature. From infancy to manhood he 
grew up, his body and soul maturing together. He loved as 
a friend, as a brother, as a son ; as a mortal he suffered and 
bled and died. Nor has he yet lost his human identity, for 
we are told that those who seek his glorified person shall dis- 
cern in his scarred features the lineaments of his human histo- 
ry ; and even in his spiritual body, " he bears about the marks 
of his dying." He is represented still further as not God 
merely, not man merely, but an inexplicable union of the two, 
by which mystery alone he discharged the functions of his 
high office. As a God he could not have suffered, as a man 
his suffering would have been no acceptable sacrifice. Only 
as he wrapped the mantle of his humanity about his incorrup- 
tible Godhead, was he fitted to stand forth as the Mediator 
and the Redeemer of man. 

I propose to show that in each of these three respects, 
Christ is peculiarly fitted to judge the world at the last day. 

I. He possesses in his divine nature qualities which fit him 
for the ofliice. Let us consider how admirably his divine at- 
tributes are suited to the judicial function such as we see it 
among men. 

In an earthly judge, we look for uncommon attainments in 



CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 219 

wisdom and knowledge. We require that he should be one 
who has thoroughly mastered the principles of human law, 
and traced their varied application. We expect in him an 
acute insight into the nature and character of man, so that 
he may weigh testimony in an even balance, and estimate 
guilt with a discriminating judgment. 

Accordingly we dignify with the judicial ermine chiefly such 
as have attained a great age, and have spent years in the study 
of books and of men. But how much more important are 
all these qualities to the Judge of the universe. Broad and 
deep as eternity are the principles of that law, which is in 
the statute-book of the great day of account. Not only are 
the splendid acts of men to be brought to light, such as 
miorht be established by the evidence of a thousand witnesses; 
but with impartial scrutiny the small and the great are to be 
gathered around the same bar, the secret thoughts that lay 
secluded in the bosom shall receive sentence with that which 
has been published upon the housetop. The whole history 
of the world, including the minutest details of each individ- 
ual's experience, is to be crowded into that single day. The 
long agitated questions in morals are then to be decided ; 
and to each act is to be attributed its appropriate character, 
and adjudged its fit award. Where could venerable experi- 
ence be found like the wisdom of Him who existed before all 
history, and from eternity has fixed his calm eye en the long 
and crowded future, as if it were the present moment. Who 
could be better qualified for the great office, than he who holds 
in his hands the books of judgment; of whom it was said, 
that " he needed not that any should testify of man, for he 
knew what was in man ;" and who has said of himself, '' I 
am he that searcheth the reins and heaits." 

Another most important requisite of an earthly judcre, is 
undeviating integrity. He should be one who not only 
knows, but adheres to the law, loving it whh the affection of 
a most docile pupil, jealous of the slightest infringement of 



•2*20 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE TTORLD. 

its claims, uniform in his quickness to discern and to punish 
crime. He should not be one whose interpretation of the 
statute or infliction of the penalty varies with every shiftincr 
circumstance. He must be proof against the most shining 
bribe — unmoved amid the torrents of prejudice or the warm 
appeals of affection. Wedded should he be to the law, con- 
stant in his attachment to it, firm and manly in his vindica- 
tion and enforcement of it. Still more important is this un- 
varying firmness in the judge of the universe. The influ- 
ences of hell combine themselves to jar the scales of justice 
in his hands, and from many a surprised criminal, there is a cry 
for mercy while the finger of justice is pointing to his doom. 
Who could stand in such a scene, so like a rock, as he who 
has been called '• the same, yesterday, to-day and forever;"' 
and who has sat enthroned above the shiftincr currents of 
time, the still, calm I AM. His infinite spirit can be ruffled 
bv no outward agitation, and his views are ever as clear as 
his purposes are just. Immutable in his perfections, he is 
the fittest representative of that law which is itself forever un- 
changed. 

Still better qualified is the judge for his station, if he is 
possessed of ^eat power, either in his own person or in the 
government which he serves. Weak and empty would be 
the spectacle afforded, if he should assume his high place, and 
send forth his oracular decisions, with no ability to enforce a 
compliance or intiict a penalty. Such a judgment-seat would 
be a laughing-stock. Vice would stalk abroad fearlessly to 
its work of devastation, and would brave the venerable re- 
prover on his very bench. Virtue would retire to weep in 
secret places over the inefficiency of its vindication. And 
law, unable to sustain its majesty or life, without the nerved 
arm to execute as well as the sagacity and acumen to ex- 
pound, would put on sackcloth and ashes, or go down from 
its mock throne to a living sepulchre. How would the judge 
of the eanh appear, if there were no power in his kindling 



CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 221 

eye to make the wicked obey his mandate — depart. But of 
him we are assured that ''he is able, by his mighty working, 
to subdue all things unto himself." The powers that throng 
around that tribunal for their last conflict shall be sadly over- 
come. '' He holds in his hands the keys of death and of 
hell," and he is fitted to pronounce the doom of the ungodly, 
because he has omnipotence to execute the sentence. 

Mercy is another most important attribute in the character 
of a judge. An unkind and cruel man would take delight in 
pushing the law to a needless rigor ; he would close his eyes 
to the palliating circumstances of the crime, and he would 
not hear that mild injunction which even the law in all its 
sternness puts forth, — Better is it that the guilty escape, than 
the innocent suffer. Our conception of the character would 
be greatly heightened, if the judge were one who often en- 
dured great sacrifices in his own person, that he might extri- 
cate the unfortunate from embarrassment. And we have this 
quality most beautifully prominent in our great and final 
judge. It is divine love that sits on the awful seat of judg- 
ment. I speak not now of the love of human sympathy, but 
love as it wells up in the Infinite Spirit, and sends out its 
streams to gladden and refresh the universe. Divine love it 
was which suggested the great plan of redemption. And it 
is fit, that he who was selected from all eternity to be the 
peculiar development of this blessed attribute, in whom the 
love of Jehovah was to array itself in its brightest smiles, and 
welcome to its most affectionate embrace, should be employed 
at last to execute that law which is founded on love, and of 
which the sternest features are but needful expressions of the 
same unceasing benevolence. 

From these considerations how appropriate does it seem 
that a God should judge the world, and not an angel or a 
man. Angels are fitted only to be the attendants and spec- 
tators of the stupendous scene. Men are but the judged. To 
Jehovah only could the history of the world be spread out as 

19* 



222 CHRIST TPIE JUDGE OF THE Vv'ORLD. 

upon a map. He alone is worthy to be the vindicator of the 
immutable law. He only can enforce and execute the dread- 
ful sentence. He only could be trusted as mingling kindness 
and mercy, with the strictness and severity of his decisions. 
Before such as He, with the dignity and majesty of the infi- 
nite and supreme, heaven and hell may bow in humble ado- 
ration, and *^ all the nations of the earth wail because of him.'' 
Verily Jehovah himself is on the throne of judgment. None 
but a God could produce that fearful dissolving of the ele- 
ments, 

" When shriveling like a parched scroll, 
The flaming heavens together roll." 

None but a God could summon around him the sleepers 
from their graves, 

" When louder yet and yet more dread, 
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead." 

H. Christ possesses in his human nature qualities which 
fit him for the office of judge. 

Certainly, if we were assured that God himself were our 
judge, none could for a moment gainsay or resist. The as- 
surance of his infinite perfections would be a pledge of the 
justness of his awards. And if our own doom on the day of 
account were made known to us in some mysterious and unu- 
sual way, every mouth would be stopped, and the whole world 
become guilty before God. Yet there is something more 
required than a cold assent of the understanding to abstract 
and invisible correctness. As we need the incarnate Deity 
to bring the divine glory to a level with our comprehension 
and sympathy, so we need the incarnate judge to influence 
us with a power more personal and direct, to bring to the 
very door of our consciences the processes of the great day, 
and to make us feel their reality, as well as acknowledge 
their truth. 



CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 223 

Christ will in his humanity be revealed to our bodily senses. 
We are not to be caught up in the air to have our sentence 
impressed upon us in some strange and supernatural manner ; 
we are to see it written on the lineament of a human face — 
a face marred by the toils and sorrows of a life like our o^^ti ; 
we are to hear it pronounced by a human voice, now 'Mike 
the sound of many waters," yet identical with that which once 
uttered the words of meek entreaty, or of lowly prayer. No 
doubt the form of the man Jesus will be arrayed in new love- 
liness, and assume a lustre surpassing that of earth, yet will 
it retain to a wonderful degree the marks of its servitude in 
our nature, and we shall gaze on it with an intimacy such as 
we could not feel for the '' face of angels," or the unclouded 
majesty of the Invisible. Especially shall we discern the 
marks of his crucifixion — the wounds in his hands and feet. 
'' Behold he cometh with clouds, and every eye shall see him, 
and they also which pierced him." " His countenance," 
says one, '* shall be most mild and peaceable towards the good, 
and though the same, most terrible towards the bad : out of 
his sacred wounds shall issue beams of light, toward the just, 
full of love and sweetness, but unto sinners full of fire and 
wrath, who shall weep bitterly for the evils which issue from 
them." 

" Some, 
They who polluted with offences come, 
Behold him as the kin^ 
Of terrors, black of aspect, red of eye, 
Reflecting back upon the sinful mind 
Heightened with vengeance and with wrath divine, 
Its own inborn deformity. 
But to the righteous spirit how benign 
His awful countenance, 
Where tempering justice with parental love, 
Goodness and heavenly grace, 
And sweetest mercy shine." 

Another circumstance of his humanity, is the fact that he 



224 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE VrORLD. 

has himself been a subject of the law accordmg to which he 
judges. He is not taken like a foreigner from some distant 
province of Jehovah's empire, to administer and execute the 
law of an unknown region, but he is one that heard its man- 
dates in his o\^Ti ear, and felt its power upon his own life. 
Nor has he been a subject merely of this government, he has 
been an obedient subject. The paths of piety which he now 
commends, he himself once trod : and the sins he punishes, 
he himself once wrestled with and conquered. Not as an 
angel, my brethren, did our judge walk among us with a na- 
ture too elevated to be touched by the corruptions of earth. 
As a man he lived, frail and feeble, with a thousand avenues 
for sin opening into his soul, and the devil watching his op- 
portunity and assailing him in his hours of bodily and spirit- 
ual exhaustion, and yet he lived pure. Not a stain defaced 
that human soul, not one note of discord disturbed the moral 
harmony of that life. Verily as he was fit for our high priest 
in that he was tempted in all points like as we, yet without 
sin, so he is fit to be our judge, in that he can say in the pres- 
ence of assembled nations around his bar, — I was the subject 
of this law. Principalities and powers and a frail humanity 
conspired to make me disloyal in my allegiance, but I was 
faithful unto death. 

Another circumstance which renders it fit that a fellow- 
man should be our judge, is the sympathy he would feel for 
the joys and woes of the gathered multitude around his bar. 
He does not invite the blessed to his own inheritance as a 
cold desert of justice, but rejoices in their exultation. He 
does not drive the wicked into hell, as one who cares not for 
their fate, if so be the law is glorified. No stoical sternness 
will darken the brow of our judge. He is our brother, not 
only related to us by ties of fellow humanity, but the most af- 
fectionate and kind of our great family; he it is who during 
his abode in our nature exhibited a benevolence so expansive, 
that it crossed the earth, and gathered the past and the future 



CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 225 

in its warm embrace ; and there shall not be one among the 
assembled millions so mean and obscure that he cannot look 
up into the face of the judge and say, he loved me with more 
than a brother's affection. And how fit is it, that he whose 
bosom beat for the whole human race should be exalted at 
last to be their judge. My hearers, have you ever been in 
court, when sentence of death was pronounced against a 
criminal. As you fixed your eye on the cold rugged visage 
of the condemned, and marked his unmoved posture, and 
his iron mien, you doubted if a human heart could be beat- 
ing there. Perhaps a quick flush passed over his features, 
as the word of death reached his ear, and then all was calm 
and cold again. But when you gazed on the streaming eyes 
of the judge, and saw his venerable frame agitated and quiv- 
ering under the awful responsibility of his mission ; when 
you heard the choked ejaculation, '* May God Almighty have 
mercy on your soul," you felt that there was new power in 
the law, shining through the tears of a man, and speaking 
in his tremulous voice. Just so will it be with our final 
Judge. The sympathies of humanity shall be conspicuous 
even in his severest maledictions. The joy of a man swells 
in his bosom at each act of faith and penitence he reads in 
the record of his chosen, and his voice sings for gladness at 
each new welcome to the right hand of his Father. And 
those who go away forever from his presence, shall remember 
the fraternal tones with which he pronounced their doom ; 
and amid the dark lonely caverns of their exile, no sound is 
sadder than that which follows the soul from the judgment 
scene — '' He that did eat bread with me has lifted up his heel 
against me." 

There is yet another thought connected with this part of 
our subject. Our Saviour has in one place made known to 
us the principle on which the award of justice is to be made. 
Most intimately is it connected with his own humanity. It 
shows that he is enabled in his demand for service, to appeal 



226 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 

to the tastes and sympathies of men ; and, as he was himself 
a man, what he chiefly requires seems to be, that we should 
cherish and exhibit a love for those whom he died to save, as 
bearing his own image, and being his own substitutes and re- 
presentatives. My brethren, each cup of cold water you fur- 
nish to a disciple in the name of Christ, he looks upon, as 
an act of kindness to himself, and feels that from you he 
should have received only tenderness and love when he was 
on the same lonely pilgrimage. And when, abashed by the 
eloquence with w hich he shall recount your services to him- 
self, you are ready to exclaim, ^' Lord when saw we thee an 
hungered and fed thee, or thirsty and gave thee drink," the 
answ^er of the Judge shall be, '^ Inasmuch as ye have done it 
unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it 
unto me." 

III. In the work of redemption, Christ has given the high- 
est possible proof of his regard for the law. 

There is a most intimate relation between the cross of 
Christ and the law of God. If Christ came merely as an in- 
structor to reform and renovate the human character, why 
was it necessary for him to die ? If his death was only an 
example of martyrdom for the truth, w hy did he not give a 
model of cheerful and joyous suffering ? No, brethren, there 
was an object higher than all this which brought the Son of 
God to earth, and made him willing to tread the portals of 
the tomb. It was that man might be reconciled to God, that 
the barrier which sin had reared between the creature and 
the Creator, might become as if it had not been. The bosom 
that yearned for the salvation of the guilty, was yet unwilling 
that guilt should escape with no mark of the vengeance of 
God. Justice appeared to contend with love in that mighty 
soul. On the one hand, he saw that the repentance and 
sanctification w^hich his own gospel might secure, could not 
wash away the stain of past offences, nor would he insult the 
law by inflicting a partial and finite punishment for an offence 



CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. ^J^T 

that in some of its relations was infinite. On the other hand, 
his heart loncred to crather the children of men ransomed and 
forgiven about the throne of a smiling Father. There was 
but one way in which love could gratify its promptings, and 
yet justice feel that no insult had been offered to its majesty. 
On me, he said, on me, let the full penalty be executed. Let 
me be held up as a spectacle for the universe of the displea- 
sure of God against sin. Let the intensity of suffering, with 
which my innocent, sensitive nature is lacerated, be enough 
to atone for the sins of a world, and be substituted for their 
deserved punishment. Law shall sheath its glittering sword, 
and stand by smilinor and contented, while a voice from the 
infinite throne proclaims. Whosoever cometh to me, though 
mountains of guilt weigh upon his soul, will he but Look to the 
cross of Christ, he shall in no wise be cast out. 

I know there are many who pretend that this view of a vi- 
carious atonement has in it something shocking to the sensi- 
bilities. An effeminate theology is pressing its claims upon 
cur faith, which leaves no room for the inflexible justice of 
God. The cross of Christ indeed is not a favorite, as it was 
not a product of human wisdom. To the theologians of the 
synagogue it was a stumbling-block. To the philosophers of 
the Academy it was foolishness : and in our own day, per ad- 
venture, to some who are saved, it looks more like the figment 
of a savage and cruel fiiith, than the wisdom and power of 
God unto salvation. To such as doubt the satisfaction of di- 
vine justice, and the connection between the law and the 
cross, we need but unfold the plain story of the gospel, and 
ask them to explain it on any other principle if they can. 
We would lead them to Gethsemane, and point them to the 
mysterious agony which there brooded on the spirit of Jesus. 
What was there in that fearful cup, from which one who had 
braved every danger, and given himself voluntarily to his 
great work, should be ready almost to shrink. What was 
there in the anticipation of mere physical suffering, to agitate 



228 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 

his frame so deeply, that in the damp air of that chilly evening 
the perspiration should fall in clots to the ground. And 
amid the tortures of the cross, irritating indeed to the nerves 
and fibres of a man — but what would they have been to an 
unclouded spirit, with the sweet memories of an innocent 
and benevolent life, thronging in smiles over its departure, 
and holding up the speedy fruition of its brightest hopes for- 
ever. Women have been known to suffer greater physical 
agonies for the truth, and with exultation and joy have gazed 
amid their suffering upon the benignant face of Jehovah. 
But from him, the prince of peace and comfort to all his fol- 
lowers, a voice was heard speaking not of the rapture of his 
expiring spirit, but of its forlornness and gloom. No ! my 
brethren,^ while we bow weeping before the cross of Christ 
as a development of the love that *' many waters could not 
quench,^' while we behold in the pangs of the sufferer, the 
yearnings of compassion for a guilty race, let us behold in it 
also, an awful, mysterious development of another, sterner 
attribute. Let us bow adoring before eternal right as it es- 
tablishes its throne on Calvary. Amid those affecting scenes, 
let us discern the arm of the law, in the garden holding up 
its iron scroll, on the cross driving the nails and aofitatin^ the 
spirit, asserting its claims in the quaking earth and the open- 
ed graves more loudly than amid the thunderings of Sinai, 
and in those awful words, '' it is finished," proclaiming that 
its demand of obedience and penalty is satisfied in the inno- 
cent suffering of the second Adam of our race. ^^ Ought not 
Christ to have suffered these things, and to enter into his 
glory ?" And what dignity will belong to him when he 
comes to administer the law, which he has thus triumphant- 
ly vindicated from reproach and injustice. Surely it is fit 
that he who hung on the cross as a representative of the law, 
should be now entrusted with its authority in the great day 
of final adjudication. 

In view of this subject, I remark, 



CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 229 

First, The mediatorial office must relinquish its proffers to 
the impenitent, when the judicial office is assumed. 

All legal analogies force us to this idea. The earthly 
judge never disgraces his ermine, by assuming upon the 
bench the part of an advocate. They who would retain his 
counsel exclusively for their own defence, must avail them- 
selves of it before he assumes the judicial function, or his 
learning and sagacity must be shared also by their adversa- 
ries. " To the law and the testimony," is the motto of the 
judge, and in his high seat he can listen to no personal ap- 
peal : he knows not his brother from his enemv, he forgets 
himself. So speaks the uniform tenor of scripture upon this 
subject. " When the Son of God appears in his glory and 
the holy ancrels with him,'' he is described as no lono-er 
pleading with the impenitent, but as pronouncing against 
them his final sentence. At the hour of judgment, the office 
oi mercy and of grace will have consummated its purposes 
for the faithful, but for the finally obdurate its efficiency must 
cease, and after that period there is no cross to which the 
agonized sinner can cling as the anchor of his hope. Faith 
in Christ, if it be not exercised before, can then be of no 
avail. Sad truth is it for thee, lingering one, that the face of 
Jesus will not always be lighted up with hope for the sinful, 
neither will his voice forever whisper its invitations of mercy, 
and its promises of pardon. The day will come when his 
countenance shall be as lightning, and '' his words like seven 
thunders uttering their voices." Oh ! secure the counsel of 
the affectionate Advocate while thou art in the way with him, 
lest thou be called to meet him as thy frowning Judge. 

Secondly, The person of the Judge will remind the right- 
eous of their dependence on grace rather than merit for sal- 
vation. 

Where is there one amoncr the blessed who could submit 
his character and history to the searching test of the All-see- 
incr ] Where is there one who would dare to meet the stern 

20 



330 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 

demand of the law on that dreadfid day, and stand forth on 
his own deserts to claim the reward ? Can he point to a sum- 
mit of perfection, to which after toils and struggles he at 
length attained, with a spirit exhausted and worn out in the 
conflict ? Or if that were itself a possible ground of merit, 
can he unfold the scroll of his history, and find from its ear- 
liest dawn no stain defilinor it ? Ah I how many deeds com- 
mitted in the darkness and solitude of midnicrht would blaze 
out there to the eye of the impartial Judge ! How many 
thoughts cherished in the secrecy of the bosom, while the eye 
sent forth pious glances, and the voice spoke of heaven ! 
But now on the disclosed tablet of the heart, they are as leci- 
ble to the Judge, as if the point of a diamond had marked 
them. No ! brethren, legally and rightfully we cannot claim 
exemption from wo, much less the blessedness of an unfad- 
ing crown. When we meet the eye of the Judge, there is 
little in its penetrating gaze that can speak comfort to us. 
When we look to the immutable law, which he stands pledged 
to support, we can but cry, guilty, guilty, with our hands 
upon our mouths. Only in the divine mercy do we find the 
ark of our refuge. It is the sympathy of the brother, '^ bone 
of our bone, and flesh of our flesh," to which we make our 
appeal. More than all, it is the victory over the law, it is 
the great vicarious sacrifice for sin as we see it pictured forth 
in the scarred visage of our Judge, that inspires our trem- 
bling spirits with hope. ^' Even the most innocent person," 
says Jeremy Taylor, '^ hath great need of mercy, and he that 
hath the greatest cause of confidence, although he runs to 
no rocks to hide him, yet he runs to the protection of the 
cross, and hides himself under the shadow of the divine mer- 
cies." And we, my brethren, when we enter into that joy 
to which our Judge shall welcome us, shall enter only among 
the ransomed and blood-bought ; and our song shall be, — 
" Not unto us, not unto us, oh Thou who art our Saviour 
and our Judge, but unto thy name be all the glory." 



CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 231 

Thirdly, Most terrible must it be to be condemned by such 
a Judge. 

'* The whole world,"' says one of the Fathers, ^^ shall groan 
when the Judge comes to give his sentence, tribe and tribe 
shall knock their sides together, and through the naked 
breasts of the most mighty kings you shall see their hearts 
beat with fearful tremblings." And, my friends, the guilty, 
who are cast away in indignation, will find in each attribute 
of the Judge something to aggravate their doom. It is the 
unerring decision of the All-wise, who cannot be deceived as 
to the character, and who knoweth the desert of each crimi- 
nal at his bar. It is the sentence of him who holds the scales 
of justice with an impartial hand, and administers a law that 
is holy and just and good. It is the stern decree of one who 
has but to speak the word, and the smoke of their torment 
ascendeth up forever and ever. But more subduing than all, 
it is the wrath of Divine Love under which they sink, and 
through the frowns of present displeasure, they discern the 
compassion that is '^ not willing that any should perish." 
Verily the divine perfection as it shines forth in the person 
of the Judge is such that every hope of escape is shut up, and 
every rebellious thought silenced forever. 

Still more will the humanity of Jesus aggravate the mise- 
ry of the condemned. He stands forth in the example of 
his perfect obedience, to show them that they might have 
obeyed. He rises up as the representative of their repeated 
violations of the law of love, — " Inasmuch as ye did it not 
unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not unto 
me." It is the condemnation of a sympathizing brother. 
Sad as it micrht be to sink under the wrath of an infinite mon- 
arch, it will be gloomier still, when the sinner must say, It 
was thou, a man, mine equal, my familiar friend, but I did 
force thee to become my reproving Judge. 

But it will be the redemption of Jesus, as it speaks forth 
from the wounded body, and the pierced hand that points to 



232 CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 

the sinner's doom, it will be the redemption of Jesus which 
will make that cup of wo most bitter. If there is one expres- 
sion in the bible where all that is awful is concentrated, it is 
in those words, — '^ the wrath of the Lamb." If there is one 
prediction which might drive the expectant sinner to a pil- 
low of thorns, and a couch of agony, it is — '' They shall look 
on him whom they have pierced." As a God, they cannot es- 
cape his searching gaze, or shake his firm justice, or over- 
throw his invincible power, or contradict his everlasting love. 
As a man, they shall see that he condemns them with all the 
stirrings of a brother's heart. As a Saviour, *^ they shall look 
on him whom they have pierced," and it will be the bitter- 
ness of that wrath under which they sink, that it is the wrath 
of a bleedino^ Lamb, 

An old divine in describing the scene has gathered a sin- 
gularly imposing group around the bar of Judgment. "Not 
only will the Redeemer be there to confound the sinner — not 
only will conscience call up the slighted love, and cry out 
against the base ingratitude — not only will the guilty them- 
selves hang their heads and smite upon their breasts, and cast 
fearful glances at the face of the Lamb, but the fallen spirits 
will be there joining to judge and condemn those whom they 
claim for their future victims. And the burden of their re- 
proof shall be, that from him who died to save, the reprobate 
can claim no mercy for themselves. " Cannot the Accuser," 
he continues, " truly say to the Judge concerning such per- 
sons, they were thine by creation, but mine by their own 
choice : thou didst redeem them indeed, but they sold them- 
selves to me for a trifle, or for an unsatisfying interest ; thou 
diedst for them, but they obeyed my commandments : I gave 
them nothing, i promised them nothing, but the pleasures 
of a night, or the joys of madness, or the delights of a disease : 
I nev^er hanged upon the cross three long hours for them, nor 
endured the labors of a poor life thirty-three years together 



CHRIST THE JUDGE OF THE WORLD. 233 

for their interest : only when they were thine by the merit of 
thy death, they quickly became mine by the demerit of their 
ingratitude; and when thou hadst clothed their soul with 
thy robe, and adorned them by thy graces, we stripped them 
naked as their shame, and only put on a robe of darkness, 
and thev thoucrht themselves secure and went dancinop to their 
grave, like a drunkard to a fight, or a fly unto a candle : and 
therefore they that did partake with us in our faults must di- 
vide with us in our portion and fearful interest." 



NOTE. 

This discourse was preached first at Boston, Salem-street church; 
afterwards at South Berwick, May 17,1840; at Dover, N. H. ; Boston, 
Park-street church ; Durham, N.H.; Andover, Mass. Theological 
Chapel ; Danvers, Mass. ; Dedham, Mass. ; Salem, Mass. Crombie- 
street church ; Charlestown, Mass. ; Buffalo, N. Y. ; Newark, N. J. j 
Rochester, N. H. 



20* 



SERMON VI. 



JESUS OUR MASTER, TEACHER, EXAMPLE AND 
REFUGE. 



Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me : for i am meek and 

LOWLY IN heart: AND YE SHALL FIND REST UNTO YOUR SOULS. 

Matt. 11 : 29. 

These words occur in one of those bursts of tenderness 
and compassion which abound in the instructions of our Sa- 
viour. He had just been describing his own mysterious 
connection with the Father, when suddenly the wants of the 
weary and wretched seem to rush upon his view, and he ut- 
ters that memorable invitation to all that labor and are heavy 
laden : Come unto me and I will give you rest. From the 
desolations of human nature, the desolations that sin had 
caused, his eye turned back upon himself, as the destined 
and ordained Redeemer from that spiritual bondage ; — as the 
fountain to whom the sin-worn and world-weary should repair, 
and find refreshment and joy to their souls. And his direc- 
tion is in the words of our text, " Take my yoke upon you, 
and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye 
shall find rest unto your souls." 

The passage invites us, my brethren, to look upon Christ 
in four several aspects : 

I. As a master, in the services he enjoins : " Take my 
yoke upon you." 



RELATIONS OF CHRIST TO HIS PEOPLE. 235 

II. As a teacher : '^ Learn of me." 

III. As an example : ^' I am meek and lowly in heart." 

IV. As a refuge from sorrow and sin : ^^ Ye shall find rest 
unto your souls." 

Let us consider Christ in these several characters, and see 
whether he is not properly set up as the standard around 
whom all should gather ; as he who is fitted to secure the 
highest elevation and happiness of the human soul. 

I. Let us consider Christ as our master, in the services he 
enjoins upon his children ; for he says, '' Take my yoke up- 
on you." 

Now we are so constituted, my brethren, that what we 
chiefly require for the full development of our powers, is con- 
stant and unremitted exertion. The soul needs active ex- 
ercise for its health. There is no more melancholy spectacle 
than a spiritual being wasting his days in idleness, sleeping 
while other men wake, or retiring oyster-like to his cell to 
see the current of action pass on, and be himself motionless, 
stupid. We invariably predict for such a one disease, or 
premature decay ; for we know that there is a law of our 
system, broad as are its various compartments, and applying 
alike to physical and spiritual and mental culture. He that 
will not work, neither shall he eat. And only the man who 
lives a life of vigor, who commissions his faculties and pow- 
ers to works of toil — only he can reap in the end the pleasant 
fruits of a laboriously exercised and symmetrically cultivated 
nature. 

Still more important is it that we should be disciplined in 
the course of holy action. We find ourselves created under a 
law, to do what is wrono;. It is not a law which forces us, 
for we are free to do what is right, if we would. But it is 
figuratively styled a law, because somehow or other the re- 
sults are invariably the same. We always do wrong, until 
we come under a new and spiritual law, the law of grace, 
and even then we arc harassed by perpetual struggles, and 



236 RELATIONS OF CHRIST 

have to undero^o the fearful conflict that Paul did, when he 
saw the law in his members warring against the law in his 
mind. And sometimes we cry out with him : " Wretched 
men that we are !" Now what we most need is something 
that shall inspire us with fixed purposes of holy action ; action 
so hicrh and ennoblino; that it cannot fail to secure its own 
perpetuity ; action which shall preoccupy the powers which 
might be devoted to sin — that when temptation comes, though 
it be in her most fascinating crarb, and her most allurincr 
smile, we can look down on her from our lofty engage- 
ments, and turn our backs in scorn. 

There is a still higher good secured, if this labor be in the 
path of difficulty and self-denial. It is true everywhere, that 
nothing great can be attained without toil and hazard. And 
it is peculiarly true of greatness of soul, that it is acquired 
only by those who press their way to it through suffering. 
The man whom the pilgrim saw on his way to the palace, 
had to enter cutting and hacking his path through grim war- 
riors, that stood there to bar up the gateway ; but he heard 
in his struggle a pleasant voice from those within, even those 
that walked on the top of the palace. And every man who 
wishes to acquire true nobleness and loftiness of spirit, must 
reach it through the pathway of suffering, in the midst of 
fightings without, and fears within ; but he shall be cheered 
by sweet voices from his own soul, that shall seem sometimes 
like the music of heaven. 

Now Christ in his qualities as a master, in the services he 
enjoins, meets just these demands of the soul. He asks for 
labor. There is not a faculty of our nature to which he does 
not make his appeal, and which he does not call into active 
exercise. There is not a power we possess, which he does 
not command us to devote to his service, and which may not 
be useful in his cause. Now where could be found a purer 
atmosphere of action, or healthier exercise for the soul, or a 
more beautiful development of our whole system, than if we 



TO HIS PEOPLE. 237 

should submit ourselves to the control and direction of such 
a master ? 

He calls us too into a course o^lioly action. He points out 
to us the glory of God, and the crood of our fellow men as the 
chief objects of exertion. He enjoins upon us a pure and 
spiritual worship. He leads us in the path of benevolence. 
He makes life one great field of labor, where we may be in- 
cessantly occupied for God and for souls. And he enforces 
these labors by the highest motives which ever speak to the 
human bosom, attachment to his own person, gratitude for 
his death, the hope of sharincr his inheritance. And, my 
brethren, if we could but fix our eye on this master, standing 
by us continually, encouraging us in our work by all the 
power of his own memory and the hope of our eternal reward, 
should we ever wish to lay dowTi our armor. Could we think 
for a moment of preferrins" the service of the world to the 
service of Jesus. 

Still more he calls us into the pathway of self-denial. It 
is a yohe which we are commanded to take upon us. First 
of all we must subdue this world-craving nature of ours. We 
must brinor every idolatry to v/hich we are clincrincr into sub- 
jection to the law of this great master. The passions that 
would draw us off into a career of self-gratification, we must 
gather under this yoke. Humiliating, mortifying position as 
it is, we must put ourselves, our whole souls there, and be 
governed by our divine guide. It is elsewhere called a cross. 
We must bear about with us that emblem of suffering in 
memory of our atoning high-priest, and in memory of the 
self-crucifying spirit he would have us cherish. We must 
count all things but loss, that we may win his approving 
smile. We must be willing to face the frowns of the world, 
and to preach the gospel to those who would scorn or abuse 
us. And, my brethren, what loftiness would be imparted to 
our character, if we were readv to look suffering and danger 
in the face in the service of our master — called not now in- 



238 RELATIONS OF CHRIST 

deed to follow him to prison and to death, but called to a 
daily crucitixion of our idols — to the wounds of a sensitive 
spirit, and to hear Christ's instructive voice in the alBicticns 
and sorrows and vexations of life. Oh ! what elevation mio[ht 
we have, if we gazed on all as the cross we were to bear, and 
bear cheerfully for the sake of Jesus, and cherished in our 
hearts the sentiment of that ancient saint, '• When we rise, 
the cross — when we lie down, the cross — when we go out 
and when we come in, the cross — at all times and in all places, 
the cross shinincr more glorious than the sun." 

II. Let us now proceed to consider Christ as our teacher, 
for he says, "Learn of me." 

The soul of man needs a divinely inspired instructor. Rich 
as are the lessons hung up in its own secret chambers, they 
are read too often with a dim eye, or a bewildered gaze, and 
man shows his ignorance by the false interpretation of his 
o^vn nature. And then when in proud self-confidence and 
trusting only to his own inward light, he walks abroad in the 
pathway of spiritual discovery, how sad and how fatal have 
been his wanderings, and it is only when the fatigued and 
famished spirit will sit down at the feet of Jesus that it wiU 
find refi'eshment and food. Yea, man needs a teacher who 
will renovate the heart, as well as furnish the intellect, and 
send them both together in holy fellowship to the work of 
self-cultivation. And such a teacher is Christ. He touches 
the moral afiections of his pupils, and makes that love the ba- 
sis of his superstructure of doctrine. 

The world has seen many great men, my brethren, under 
whose instructions you and I would have loved to sit. But 
take the philosophic sages of heathen antiquity who could 
blend nothing Christ-like with their lessons, because the ora- 
cles of the New Testament had net yet been uttered, and to 
them the finger of prophecy had not pointed out the future 
guide, and how lifeless appear their lessons compared with 
his who brought life and immortality to light. When we see 



TO HIS PEOPLE. 239 

how their minds struggled for the truth, and contrast the fee- 
bleness of their attainments with the mio^htiness of their en- 
deavors, we are reminded of 

" Eyes that rolled in vain to catch the piercing ray 
But found no dawn." 

And we most beautifully recur to our own teacher, when we 
remember that the greatest sentiment which Socrates ever 
uttered, was that in which, forced by a sense of ignorance to 
the unconscious prophecy, he speaks of looking forward to a 
divine teacher who shall one day appear to reveal the mys- 
teries of truth, and make its dark places plain. 

Go to the inspired teachers, and you find that they live and 
breathe in the fullness of their blessed master. The poetry 
of the Old Testament never glows so brightly, as when it 
speaks of the Shiloh that is to come, — of the grace that is 
poured into his lips, — of the spirit of wisdom which shall en- 
circle him. And the lessons of apostolic wisdom never ap- 
pear so rich, as when they name the name of Jesus, and 
breathe his spirit, and seem but new embodiments of the ac- 
cents which fell from his lips. 

Was there ever a system of morality, more comprehensive 
and yet more spiritual, than the sermon on the mount ? Did 
the great law of love ever speak with a clearer power to 
the soul of man ? And throughout that ministry, how varied 
the form and yet how unaltered the spirit of the truths incul- 
cated. More than any man he blended the wisdom of the 
serpent with the harmlessness of the dove ; uttering many a 
brief maxim, which contains volumes of meaning, and attracts 
the long study of the greatest of minds, and yet so simple that 
a child can understand it ; now withering an opposer with 
his gentle sarcasm, now overpowering him with his just re- 
buke, now winning him by his benignant invitation ; now 
clearly unfolding a hard doctrine, now inculcating a soul 
stirring rule of action, now breathing a whisper of par- 



240 RELATIONS OF CHRIST 

don and peace ; yet ever the same — full of meaning, and 
purity and love. Jesus, we will choose thee for our teacher, 
for in thy light we shall see light. Wandering for moral les- 
sons among the teachings of earth, we do but tire cur vexed 
spirits, and blind our dim vision. We come back to thee. 
With new delight would we bend over thy pages. With 
child-like docility would we sit down at thy feet. Oh ! teach 
us, guide us, enrich us with thine own wisdom, exalt us at 
last to the new and higher teachings of heaven. 

III. Let us proceed to consider Christ as an example, for 
he points to his own character as the chief source of instruc- 
tion when he says, " I am meek and lowly in heart.'*' 

He stands out in all history as the solitary instance of a 
spotless human being. What the soul craves most in com- 
panionship, is the personation of moral and mental perfec- 
tions. But every thinking man knows that such a treasure 
cannot be found. There is not one to whom I speak who 
has not noticed this particular in his own experience. When 
you have fixed upon some one person as possessing all the 
most admirable qualities of character, and presenting to your 
view a most harmonious picture, how invariably has a closer 
acquaintance or a minuter inspection revealed some foibles to 
your view, not indeed to diminish your love, but to make 
you weep in secret places over the imperfection of your na- 
ture. You have read of that ancient sculptor Phidias. On 
a certain occasion he was commanded to mould a statue of 
Jupiter, which should excel in the beauty of its proportions 
all his former works. At the set time he brought forth an 
image, which seemed as he was carrying it through the streets, 
so ungainly in aspect, and so awkward in posture, that the 
disappointed populace had well nigh torn him to pieces. But 
the artist begged them to wait till he had placed it on its lofty 
pedestal ; and then in the enchantment which distance lent 
to the view, it stood forth with such dignity and beauty and 
grace, that the people shouted that Phidias was himself a 



To HIS PEOPLE. 241 

god. And I have known some men, who on the same prin- 
ciple have shrunk from an intimacy with their fellows, from 
a morbid fear of discovering their deficiences. But I would 
rather they should make a different use of their sense of hu- 
man frailty. I would rather it should lead them to reflect how 
the human character must appear to the eye of God, wherte 
it shuns even the scrutiny of man. I would rather it should 
gather all men around Jesus, as the great and the only spec- 
tacle of perfect humanity — as able to satisfy every longing of 
the soul. 

There is a thought touched upon by some recent writers 
on this subject, to which I cannot help alluding. It presents 
the fitness of Christ for a universal example, from the fact 
that his traits of character are, so to speak, universal rather 
than individual or national. His virtues are not virtues ar- 
rayed in the costume of his race or his line. He was not a 
Jew, but a man. In this respect he differs from every other 
great man, and from every other illustrious example that 
ever lived. They are all the peculiar property of some pecu- 
liar clime or age, and they cannot of course speak with equal 
power to those at a distance from their home or their pe- 
riod. Not so is it with Christ. He did not assume the ex- 
clusive bigotry of the Jew, the formality of the pharisee, or 
the pedantry of the scribe ; but he took his stand above the 
level of Judaism and its various phases, on the broad, noble 
basis of humanity. And now through these simple features 
he speaks to men of every clime and every age. Alike the 
king and his vassal will hear his fraternal voice. His image 
shines in the abodes of refinement or the hovel of poverty. 
The Bramin of India, and the Mohammedan of Persia, and 
the native savage of our own wilds, come up from their wide- 
ly severed spheres of idolatry and all unite in recognizing in. 
this one character the lineaments of a brother. 

And, my brethren, to us who have adopted him as our spir- 
itual brother, shall not his gentle example — the meekness 

21 



242 RELATIONS OF CHRIST 

and lowliness of his heart — shall they not speak with a pow- 
er that shall subdue our own lives to a delightful fellowship. 
And when called to face affliction and trial, shall we not be 
exalted and comforted, by thinking over the paths of trial 
which he trod, and imitate his spirit of meek submission till 
we imagine ourselves in the very footsteps of his sorrow ? 
And when called to tread the fiery pathway of temptation, let 
us think of the wilderness, and the garden, and the cross ; let 
us remember that though he wrestled as a man, he conquer- 
ed, and that we shall hear his voice saying to us. Be of good 
cheer, I have overcome, and I will give you the victory ; and 
that voice shall be to us, as was the ministering of angels to 
the famished Jesus. There is a beautiful story of an eastern 
king, who was journeying one cold winter's night in compa- 
ny with his servant. The servant from fatigue and cold sunk 
down, and had well nigh perished in the snow. But when 
his master missed him, he turned back and bade him rise, 
and be of good cheer, and be careful to walk directly behind 
him, and put his feet exactly in his own footsteps in the snow. 
And the servant did so, keeping in the path through the snow 
which his master's feet were making, and he went on rejoic- 
ingly, and fainted no more. And, my brethren, it is so with 
us. When we wander away from the path of our Lord's ex- 
ample, we shall faint and die. But let us keep steadily in 
his footsteps, and we shall be strong. 

IV. Let us briefly consider Christ, in the last place, as our 
refuge from sorrow and sin ; for he holds it out as a reward 
for our service, and obedience, and imitation, — '^ Ye shall 
find rest to your souls." 

And the soul of man needs such rest. Oh there are sea- 
sons when desolation like a whirlwind sweeps over us, and 
the agonizing question of the stricken spirit is, *^ whither 
shall I flee for a refuge." Adversity tears from us our 
choicest treasures ; and we are left in the world with that 
insufferable sense of loneliness, which makes us feel though 



TO HIS PEOPLE. 243 

we are in the midst of a crowd that we are fearfully alone. 
And how blessed is the heart which can look up to Jesus at 
such an hour, with the peaceful and happy exclamation, 
** Whom have I in heaven but thee, and there is none on earth 
that I desire besides thee.'' 

But it is chiefly as a refuge from sin, that we are called to 
contemplate our Saviour, on this interesting occasion. Those 
are indeed hours of bitterness, when the soul wakes up to the 
consciousness of its own past ingratitude and neglect ; and 
the dark v/aves of despair seem to roll over it. And from 
the pangs of remorse, and the angry eye of God, and the 
gulph that yawns for the convicted one, there is but one place 
of escape, and that is the cross of Christ. In the sacred 
wounds, in the streaming blood, in the despairing visage, we 
behold our own refuse. In the voice of ag;onv, we hear the 
sentence of our own peace. 

In a discourse which I once heard, and which I can now 
quote only from memory, the preacher gathered around the 
scene of the crucifixion the company of those whom Jesus 
had benefited by his miracles of mercy. These all throng 
about the cross, to pacify his sorrow, by reminding him how 
rich in benefits had been his life. The widow of Nain brincrs 
thither her son restored to the freshness of life, from the very 
gateway of burial. Demoniacs whom he had relieved sit 
down among the holy women clothed and in their right minds. 
The blind are there, gazing with moistened eyes on him who 
had brought lio-ht into the chambers of their darkness. There 
Lazarus and his sisters look up with affection in every feature, 
and speak with grateful voice of the mourning he had turned 
to joy. There Jairus leads in his blooming daughter, and 
the newly wedded pair of Cana come to grace the halls of his 
memory with their festive offering. These all wait upon the 
lonely sufferer as he hangs suspended between heaven and 
earth. They would bring peace to his despairing spirit. They 
would brint£ balm to his wounded soul. " But when he had 



244 RELATIONS OF CHRIST TO HIS PEOPLE. 

tasted thereof, he would not drink. And he cried, it is fin- 
ished, and gave up the ghost." And, my brethren, why was 
it that he could find no peace in those pleasant recollections 
— that he could read no comfort in those grateful faces. It 
was because the burden of our sins was upon him. And he 
found in that fearful hour no rest for himself, that he might 
say unto us ; ^' in me, in me ye shall find rest unto your souls." 
And now, beloved, Christ has called you to a new sacra- 
mental feast. With new delight will you not come, and con- 
template him as your master, as your teacher, as your exam- 
ple, as your refuge ? Shall it not be, that you will come 
forgetting the things that are behind, with their depressions 
and discords and sins, and come up to the table in holy fel- 
lowship with each other and your common Lord ? Will you 
not come to take upon you anew his yoke, to learn new les- 
sons of wisdom from his lips, to have new light shed upon the 
pathway in which he trod, and to press to your heart with 
new affection his blessed promises. Behold him in the ele- 
ments of his body and his blood, as your master, and take up 
the cross, and bear it with a spirit of self-devotion and fidelity 
through life. Listen to him in the bread and the cup, as a 
teacher — reminding you of your guilt, and calling you to 
gratitude and love. Behold him in that affecting picture 
of disinterested suffering, as an example of lofty benevolence ; 
and be willing as he laid down his life for you, to lay down 
your lives also for one another. But above all let us gaze 
on him as a refucre — a rest for our souls : rest amid the wan- 
derings of earth; rest in the dark hour of despair ; rest amid 
the agonies of death ; rest at his own right hand in heaven. 



NOTE. 

This sermon was preached at South Berwick, May 1840; afler- 
wards at South Boston, New Market, N. H. , and Dover, N. H. 



SER10x\ YII. 



THE RESPONSIBILITY OF A MAN' FOR HIS IXFLU- 
EXCE OVER OTHERS. 



An'D the lord said rVTO CAIN', where is ABEL THY BROTHER? 
AXD HE SAID, I KVOAV NOT: AM I 3IY BROTHERS KEEPER? AXD 
HE SAID, WHAT HAST THOU DONE ? THE VOICE OE THY BROTHER'S 
BLOOD CRIETH UXTO ME FROM THE GROUND. Gen. 4 : 9, 10. 

I HAVE selected this familiar passage, to lay before you 
some thoucrhts on the duties we owe to each other. God 
comes to the murderer, and demands of him an account re- 
specting his brother. The guilty man tries to throw off the 
responsibility. But he cannot escape the all-searching eve of 
Jehovah, or the voice that cries from the ground for ven- 
geance. By a very easy accommodation we can apply the 
passage to that account which God calls every man to render 
respecting the condition of his fellow-man. The text natu- 
rally suggests a three-fold division of the subject. 

I. God has a rio-ht to call men to account for the condi- 
tion of their fellow-creatures : ^^ Where is thy brother?" 

II. Men are disposed to deny this accountability, chiefly in 
reference to moral and religious influence : '' Am I my bro- 
ther* s keeper ?'' 

III. God certainly will call men to account for the influ- 
ence they exert upon others : " What hast thou done ? the 
voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.'' 

I. God has a right to call men to account for the condition 

21* 



246 man's responsibility for others. 

of their fellow-creatures. To each one of us it is perfectly 
proper that he should come this evening with the solemn in- 
terrogatory, ^^ Where is thy brother ?" There is not an indi- 
vidual present who has not the destinies of fellow-beings in 
some measure committed to his trust ; who may not have 
been operating, by something that he has done this very day, 
upon others who live a thousand miles from this place, or 
who may not live till a thousand years from this time. 

I think this will be evident if we consider, 

First, The structure of man as a social being. We natu- 
rally shun solitude. The sympathies of our nature all lead 
us to fly to one another. They prompt us not only to secure 
our own interests, but to seek out some other being to love, 
and shelter, in our warm embrace, from evil. One who se- 
cludes himself from his fellows, and lives in the wilderness, 
in solitary independence of everything except the wild pro- 
ductions of nature, is looked upon as a moral anomaly ; and 
even he cannot escape the searching question, '^ Where is thy 
brother?" For as he tries to shut himself out from all fel- 
lowship, he is accountable for that very seclusion ; and he 
who neglects his brother may be as guilty, as he who does 
his brother wroncr. 

Society is founded upon this principle of mutual dependence. 
And the way we test the progress of society, is by examining 
how far its diflferent classes assume the position of mutual 
aid. The poor depend upon the rich, and the rich depend 
upon the poor. One branch of industry is supported by an- 
other. The tradesman is dependent on the youngest appren- 
tice whom he supplies with food and raiment. If the small- 
est wheel in the great system were to move irregularly, the 
disorder would be felt at the centre of operations ; and should 
the hand say to the foot, I have no need of thee, the world 
would stand still and refuse to stir, until harmony could be 
restored among the discordant members. Every man who 
feels conscious of having injured his neighbor, recognizes 



man's responsibility for others. 247 

the justice of that law which calls him to account for the 
wrong. And it is the voice of God speaking through the 
ordinance of man, in the words of our text, " Where is thy 
brother ?"' 

Secondly, We shall be still more fully convinced of the 
justice of this demand of God, if we consider the nature of 
human influence. The voice of man stirs up depths in the 
soul of his fellow-man, which nothing else can reach. And 
the silent example often speaks with an eloquence, which no 
language could exhibit. It is probable that we never con- 
verse with a fellow-being without carrying away certain 
thoughts or impressions from the interview, which afterwards 
make a part of our mental furniture. In my own observa- 
tion I have noticed this remarkable fact. When a sensitive 
scholar has been cherishing in secret some favorite opinion, 
and at length meets a friend who opposes him, and an ear- 
nest discussion ensues : unless the scholar can brincr his 
friend to an agreement with him upon the spot, he often goes 
aw^ay with misgivings about the correctness of his own theory. 
He may have felt that he conquered his friend in argument, 
but is still discomposed by the thought that an intelligent 
spirit cannot agree with him, and he is at last compelled to 
retrace his steps, and modify if not abandon his theory. 
And occasionally it is found that this same friend has been 
undergoing a similar process in his own mind, and chiefly by 
the power of mental sympathy has come to adopt the views 
of the scholar, so that the two disputants are almost prepar- 
ed to exchange ground, and fight the battle over again. 
There is a story told of two brothers by the name of Rey- 
nolds, who lived in England, in the seventeenth century. 
One was a protestant, and the other a catholic. Both fond 
of each other, and each anxious to convert the other to his 
own belief They appointed a day for discussion. They 
met and canvassed the subject of their respective religions, 
and the result was that the protestant became a catholic, and 



248 man's responsibility for others. 

the catholic became a protestant, and each remained so till 
his dying day. Now this was no force of argument, but sim- 
ply the power of one human soul over another. And, my 
friends, could the pages of our long inward history be brought 
to us, as clearly as we shall read them by the force of that 
plenary memory with which we are one day to be endowed, 
should we not find that there is built up on our separate in- 
viduality a superstructure from the thoughts of others. That 
first whisper of maternal tenderness which we heard in infan- 
cy, when it ceased to vibrate on the ear, did not cease to vi- 
brate on the heart. The playmates of our childhood may 
have contributed impulses which have grown up into all-ab- 
sorbing passions. And onward, all the way through life, we 
have been gathering up these impressions, and there lives and 
thinks and acts in us the crowd of living, thinking, acting be- 
ings through which we have been hurried. 

There is another thought connected with this influence 
over each other. It is eternal. It cannot cease with life. It 
sometimes speaks from the grave with a power that it did not 
possess before. The memory of the dead forces their influ- 
ence upon us with a charm that we cannot resist. But that 
influence lives also, after the power that communicated its 
first impulses is silent, in the lives of those who felt it, and who 
in turn will transmit it to successive generations down to the 
end of time. We, my friends, live among the ruins of a once 
mighty people, who were buried upon the very ground where 
we now stand. Now and then we dig up their bones. But 
where are their bodies ? And where is the dust of the fa- 
thers of that race ? Decomposed to its original elements, it 
has gone to nurture the earth that sustains our life, and it 
floats around us in the air we breathe. And we ourselves in 
time shall return to our mother earth, to enrich its resources, 
and to bear our share in maturing its future sons. And have 
you never thought that our souls live also on the dead. That the 
thoughts cherished, and the words uttered years ago, by those 



man's responsibility for others. 249 

v/hom the hand of God has Imked in with our destiny, are 
supplying our minds and our language ; that the influence 
you have exerted to-day over your brother, will speak through 
him to his children and his children's children. As you have 
read of that eastern fable of the transmio^ration of souls, has 
it not seemed to you that there may be such a transmigration 
of influence. Do you not feel, that the spirit of a remote an- 
cestor may this day, in one sense be looking out at your eyes, 
and speaking in your voice, and you yourselves in turn, by 
the ever-living power of your influence, may stand one day in 
the station and whisper in the ear of a remote descendant. 
And has not God a ria;ht to demand of vou, hedged in as you 
are by such circumstances, able to move neither to the right 
hand nor to the left as a solitary being, endowed with the 
privilege of improving this power for the good of your fellows, 
for lonor acres in this life and eternal ao^es in the life to come 
— Oh! has he not the right to demand an account of such a 
stewardship, of such a talent, as he does, when with solemn 
earnestness he puts the question, '^ Man where is thy bro- 
ther r 

11. I now pass to remark that men are disposed to deny 
this accountability, chiefly in reference to moral and reli- 
gious influence. With regard to worldly concerns, they are 
proud to acknowledge their power over each other ; they 
make it their boast. And the more low the station, the more 
insignificant the agent, the more exulting is the thought, that 
he can make even the lofty and the powerful feel their depen- 
dence upon him. But go to such a one, and ask him what 
he has done for the souls of his fellow-men ; whether he has 
ever communicated one spiritud truth ; whether there has 
been a religious power speaking forth from his life ; whether 
in short the world is any better for his living in it; and he 
will start from you with surprise, and the language you 
read in his perturbed countenance is, '' Am I my brother's 
keeper ?'' — I, but a private citizen, but an humble member 



250 man's responsibility for others. 

of society, comparatively poor in knowledge and property and 
talent ? Go to the princes of the earth, go to those who have 
been officially entrusted w^ith the concerns of their fellow- 
men, go to the ministers of the gospel, who w^atch for souls 
as they that must give account, but come not to me. ^^ Am 
I my brother's keeper ?" 

One of the reasons why men are so prone to deny this re- 
ligious accountability is, that they are most conscious of a 
deficiency here. Cain knew that he had been guilty of the 
murder of his brother, and he thought it a very sagacious 
mode of self-vindication to deny all responsibility in the mat- 
ter. If conscience had but held back the arm that he lifted 
that morning against his brother, and forced him to a kind 
embrace rather than a murderous blow, he would not have 
met the searching question with such an answer. With a 
clear open front, he would have stood up in the presence of 
Jehovah, and pointed to the mild one still laying his flocks 
upon the altar of sacrifice. And, my brethren, it is the same 
wdth us. We live forgetful of our high calling as religious be- 
ings. When we pass a fellow-creature in the street, when we 
gather our children about us in the family, when we are enga- 
ged in business intercourse, we seldom look upon those whom 
the providence of God has gathered around us, as creatures 
destined to immortality, and as capable of receiving an impres- 
sion from us, which may make that an immortality of joy. 
And when God comes to us, with this solemn inquiry con- 
cerning our brother, we are so conscious of entire forgetful- 
ness, or of absolute guilt, that we try to shake off all sense of 
obligation, and deny the rightfulness of his appeal. Not so 
would it be, if we cherished the constant sense of our power, 
and determined to exercise it for God. If our daily prayer 
was that he would enable us to live for others as well as our- 
selves, if we went forth to our duties with spirits sanctified 
and elevated by this prayer, if every word and act breathed 
forth the energy of this noble purpose, and we made men feel 



MAN S RESPOXSIBILITY FOR OTHERS. 251 

that we were in love with souls : then, when our Lord should 
come to urge upon us the solemn and searching inquiry, with 
joy should we go forth to meet him at his coming, and our an- 
swer would be. Lord here are we, and those whom thou 
hast committed to our spiritual guardianship. 

Another of the reasons for this denial of accountability for 
our religious intluence, is that we are disposed practically to 
deny the omniscience of God. So was it with Cain. Fool- 
ish man ! In the confusion of his embarrassment, he forgot 
that he was proclaiming his innocence in the ear of him, y\ho 
woidd take his hurried disclaimer as the strongest evidence 
of guilt. For the moment he forgot that an eye had been 
upon him all that day : that it looked in upon the first im- 
pulses of his passionate heart ; that it watched the fearful 
struggle that was going on there, — an eye from which he 
could not escape, though he sought his victim in seclusion 
from the gaze of men, but which blazed in upon that deed of 
darkness, and counted every drop of innocent blood, and fol- 
lowed the murderer home, and fixed its calm clear glance 
upon him when he was called to his account. Oh ! could 
he have remembered the character of him before whom he 
stood, he would not have added such madness and folly to 
his guilt, but would have stood speechless with terror, or 
have prostrated himself in humble confession for his crime. 

And we, my friends, how often are we inclined to attribute 
our o\\'n short-sightedness to God. Because we cannot fol- 
low the consequences of our own acts, because we cannot 
look in upon the soul of another, and defeat the impression 
we have made, because we cannot trace with unerring finger 
the progress from heart to heart and from age to age, we are 
prone to imagine that he who summons us to our account is 
equally ignorant. Oh ! could we realize that to him the 
small and the great are all the same, and each compartment 
in his moral system has a firm place in his memory, and 
every act however trivial he traces to its remotest results, our 



252 man's responsibility for others. 

humble confession would be, we are verily guilty concerning 
our brother. And if we could bear about with us through 
life the thought of that all-seeing eye, we should sympathize 
with it in its watchful anxiety, lest the susceptible natures 
which are so easily moved, should by our influence be moved 
wrong. 

III. I proceed to remark that God certainly will call men 
to account for the influence they exert upon others. 

The justice and impartiality of his law require this. He 
should vindicate the constitution he has established. If he 
has united men so indissolubly, that they become, as it were, 
a part of each other, he who knows how to analyze the moral 
commixture, must call each one to answer for his separate 
portion of guilt. And throughout the universe of God, there 
cannot be one so obscure and mean, that no notice is taken 
of the share he communicates, and the share he receives 
of influence. If corruption go forth from his silent and se- 
cret abode, but to taint the atmosphere which other men 
breathe, the consistency of the divine law requires that it 
should be brought forth to view, and forced back in judgment 
upon the source to which it is traced. Or if corruption enter, 
though it be but from the breath of a passing traveler, yet the 
voice of the poor man's blood cries from the ground, and it will 
one day deepen into the tones of Jehovah coming to the door 
of the criminal's heart, with the startling inquiry. Where is 
that brother whom thou hast injured ! The bible is full of 
assurances upon this solemn subject. The great principle 
upon which Christianity is founded, is that of love to our 
neighbor. He who hides his talents in a napkin cannot es- 
cape the censure or the doom of an unprofitable servant. 
There is no denunciation more awful, than that which is ut- 
tered against him by whom offences come, though it be to 
the little ones of Christ's flock. And in the great unfolding 
of the judgment scene, we are told that this is to be the sub- 
ject of the trial. The question proposed to each individual 



man's responsibility for others. 253 

around that final bar will be, What hast thou done for thy 
brother ? And if his spiritual nature was famishing, or ex- 
posed to corruption and disease, and thou didst not put forth 
thy hand, to extend to him the food of the word, or to point 
him to the great physician, or to draw him into the ark of 
safety ; but didst rather set before him the unwholesome sus- 
tenance of a bad example, and didst leave him to perish in 
nakedness within his dark damp prison house of sin, — then 
shall the Judge answer and say. Depart from me ; for I was 
an hungered and athirst, sick and in prison, and ye gave me 
no aid. 

Our moral nature will respond more readily to no retri- 
bution, than to that which we suffer for the neglect or the 
perversion of our influence. And it will be the bitterness of 
our doom in another world, that we shall be surrounded by 
those who, but for us, would not have come to that place of 
torment. 

My christian brethren, let me close this discourse with one 
word of appeal to you. Do you consider that no man liveth 
for himself, and no man dieth for himself? Through life, 
each moral act sets in train its kindred actions in the hearts 
of others, and every new act awakened into being has the 
same power of perpetuating and multiplying itself. The evil 
that men do lives after them, and while they slumber in their 
graves, it may be possessing all the power of its first impulse. 
My brother, you not only possess within you as a human 
being the elements of an extensive, a never ending power, 
but as a Christian, you possess it to an unusual degree. You 
are like a city set upon a hill that cannot be hid. Men look 
upon you as the representative of goodness, as the imitator of 
Jesus; and from you the unspiritual and the worldly will 
judge, what is religion, and who is Christ. Will you not 
then solemnly put to yourselves the question this evening, 
whether you are living worthily of this exalted eminence ; 
whether the world are taking courage from your inconsistent 

22 



254 

example to go on in sin ; whether the members of Christ^s 
body derive warmth and refreshment from their communion 
with you, and go from your presence with new views of the 
preciousness of their faith. Are you living as if the church to 
which you belong leaned upon you ? Are you strenuous in your 
endeavors to increase its spirituality, and to multiply its ener- 
gies ? Can you point to a soul for whose conversion you are 
laboring and praying with a faith and zeal that will not tire 
and faint ? Do you cultivate a missionary spirit, whereby in 
your own person or that of others, you may reach the deso- 
late neighborhoods, the wildernesses of Zion around you? 
Above all do you watch with a godly jealousy over your own 
daily conduct and converse, determined that they shall speak 
with an eloquence indirect, unostentatious, inoffensive, but 
powerful upon all who witness them ? Do you associate with 
men of the world, as one impelled by higher purposes, and 
cheered by brighter hopes, and subsisting on more celestial 
food ] Does religion beam from your eye, does it animate 
your countenance, does it breathe in all your actions, like a 
living reality rather than a cold dead profession ? My breth- 
ren, what we do must be done quickly. When we are in 
our graves, not we but ours shall be working. We shall be 
silent, but our influence will be living and speaking still. 
Then we cannot recall the idle word, or the sinful act, which 
may be moving on in its career of mischief But now while 
it is called to-day, if we do but rouse ourselves, we may re- 
deem the past, we may check the circulation of our own sins, 
we may wake up to the consciousness of who we are, where 
we are, and what w^e can do. God shall be glorified, and 
souls saved, and Zion rejoice in the efficiency of her sons. 
And when we reach our heavenly abode, like a long track of 
light and beauty shall we follow the blessed influence in its 
eternal work. 

My friends, let us all consider how fearfully and wonder- 
fully we are made, and that it becomes us to walk softly in a 



255 

universe, where one step to the right or the left may be 
fraught with consequences so stupendous. Let us lean on 
God, who alone can save us from incurring the awful guilt of 
abusing this precious talent, and ruining the souls of men. 



NOTE. 

" This sermon," says an intimate friend of Mr. Homer, " he regard- 
ed as a mere extemporaneous effusion, without any particular form or 
finish. It was esteemed by his hearers, however, as one of his most 
effective discourses." — He ordinarily preached it as an evening lec- 
ture. It was delivered at South Berwick, May 8, 1840; afterwards 
at Dover, N. H., South Boston, Portsmouth, N. H., Newmarket N. H., 
Danvers, Mass., Buffalo, N. Y., Rochester, N. H., and Great Falls, 
N.H. 



SERMON Yin. 



CHARACTER OF PONTIUS PILATE. 



And PILATE GAVE SENTENCE THAT IT SHOrLD BE AS THEY REQUIRED. 

Luke 23 : 24. 

There is an air of veritable narrative about the New Tes- 
tament, which distinguishes it from all other religious books. 
Its scenes and characters are many of them a part of general 
as well as sacred history. We look into the records of other 
religions, and we find that the beings and events they treat 
of are altogether of a supernatural character, and such, that 
as men and as historians we cannot sympathize with them. 
Even the Old Testament relates to a people peculiar and se- 
cluded, and as the incidents and persons it brings to our view 
are seldom recorded in the annals of classical literature, they 
often lack the breathincr form of historical realities. But the 
New Testament marks the era of the blending of sacred with 
secular history, of the connection of the Jews with the civi- 
lized world, the world with which Livy and Tacitus have 
made us familiar ; and this second revelation introduces us 
to the society of common life ; we recognize as old acquaint- 
ances the characters and laws and customs brought to our 
view ; with the group of martyrs and apostles there sometimes 
mino-le the iron features of the Roman soldier, and our faith 
is appealed to with a directness and intimacy, which the 



CHARACTER OF PILATE. 257 

purely religious narrative could never acquire. It is a mark 
of peculiar wisdom, that the most momentous event which 
the bible records, is brought home to us from the tribunal of 
a well known Roman Procurator, and depicted in the familiar 
forms of a Roman scourge and cross. 

The character and history of Pontius Pilate are not fully 
given in the gospels. But if we examine the secular tradi- 
tions in connection with the inspired narrative, they cannot 
fail to throw light upon each other. The accounts of the 
trial of Jesus seem to present the governor, as characterized 
by general weakness of principle rather than strongly-marked 
depravity. But the record of his administration in profane 
history is stained with every atrocity. Philo describes him 
as a man of obstinate temper and imperturbable arrogance, 
and speaks of the wantonness with which he condemned the 
innocent, and the cruelty with which he executed the laws. 
Incidents are related by the several historians of the period 
which confirm this description. On one occasion he shocked 
the religious feelings of the Jews, by introducing triumphal 
images of Caesar into the holy city, and even provoked the 
emperor to a rebuke. At another time he appropriated the 
sacred treasure to defray the expenses of an aqueduct to Je- 
rusalem, and when the people were assembled to complain 
of the outrage, he let loose upon them his soldiers arrayed 
in the common costume, like so many blood-hounds to fol- 
low up and chastise every breathing of rebellion. To those 
stern features which became him as the representative of the 
Roman government, he seems to have added a natural love 
for cruelty, and that intense hatred of the Jews which had 
already began to hunt down the persons and the customs of 
that ill-fated race. 

Such was the man selected by the enemies of Jesus, to 
consummate their own infamous proceedings. His ordinary 
residence was at Caesarea, but he had come up to Jerusalem 
at this time of the Passover, to hold a crimhial court, as well 

22* 



258 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

as to suppress any tumult which might rise amid the vast 
gathering, and the rehgious excitements of that noted festival. 
There were various reasons which may at this time have in- 
duced the Sanhedrim to transfer their criminal to the Roman 
judicatory. The power of inflicting capital punishment had 
been already removed from their hands, and although they 
need not have feared a strict enforcement of the regulation, 
they wished the punishment to be more ignominious and 
cruel than it was their own custom to inflict. They felt 
moreover secret misgivings of the flagrancy of their conduct, 
and they wished to throw off* the responsibility of the final is- 
sue upon one whose hardened conscience could bear the 
weight. And they may have feared, that the fickle populace 
would frustrate their designs by some premature change of 
opinion, or that, after the victim had fallen, the buried affec- 
tions of the multitude would rise up and call for vengeance 
on the persecutors. Agitated by a consciousness of wrong 
and terrified by a foreboding of judgment, they gladly sought 
refuge and aid in the very power which was their dread and 
hatred ; and they felt safe in the cooperation of a government 
proverbial for its recklessness of human life, swift and savage 
enough to gratify their own insatiate cruelty, strong enough 
to silence every whisper of opposition, and wicked enough to 
make this outrage appear like a small drop in an ocean of 
crime. 

It was at about five o'clock on Friday morning, soon after 
the hour of sunrise, when they hurried away from the scene 
of their own nefarious trial in the high-priest's court yard to 
the palace of Herod, where Pilate was then residing. They 
were a group of strongly marked figures. They wore the 
despairing aspect of the last men of a noble race. The dig- 
nity of the old prophet was not there, neither did the faithful 
waiting for the promises light up those features with the 
smiles of hope. They walked along that dolorous path like 
the ghosts of ancient greatness. The ruins of the Mosaic 



CHARACTER OF TILATE. 259 

law seemed to totter in their steps. It was as if they were 
going to their own execution. The hour of their degeneracy 
had arrived, and this morning it might he read in pale faces, 
and eyes bloodshot and strained from the sleepless and excit- 
ing night, and the curled lip that betokened uneasy malice. 
Yet they are eminently conscientious men, and in all the ea- 
gerness of their errand to the Pretorium, they will not ven- 
ture within the heathenish enclosure, lest they become unfit 
to eat the passover. Praisev»'orthy punctiliousness ! They 
had just forgotten the once fondly cherished " annise and 
cummin," in their heated disobedience to '^ the weightier 
matters of the law," for " to condemn the just," they had held 
the council by night, and consulted on a capital crime at the 
period of the festival ; but now with the foolish inconsistency 
of uneasy, conscience smitten criminals, they stop at the 
threshold. '^ Woe to you," exclaims an old divine, " Woe to 
you, priests, scribes, elders, hypocrites ! can there be any 
roof so unclean as that of your own breasts? Not Pilate's 
walls, but your hearts are impure. Is murder your errand, 
and do ye stick at a local infection ? God shall smite you, 
ye whited vralls. Do ye long to be stained with blood, with 
the blood of God ? and do ye fear to be defiled with the touch 
of Pilate's pavement ? Doth so small a gnat stick in your 
throat, while ye swallow such a camel of flagitious wicked- 
ness ? Go out of yourselves, ye false dissemblers, if ye would 
not be unclean." 

As it was the policy of the Roman tribunal to humor such 
prejudices, the governor came forth to meet them in the open 
air. The area which he occupied during the trial was some- 
what elevated, and overlaid with a tesselated stone pavement. 
Upon this was placed the seat of judgment, one of those small 
painted pieces of marble which the Roman magistrates car- 
ried with them on their journeys. Thus he sat, surrounded 
by the accusers and the multitude, while Jesus was left bound 
and guarded in the porch. The parley began, " What accu- 



260 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

sation do you bring against the man ?" There was an ex- 
pression of firmness and force in this first question of Pilate, 
which surprised and intimidated the accusers. They had 
supposed he would condemn without a hearing. Many a 
time, had they seen him exult over the sufferings of the inno- 
cent, and they knew that he reveled in scenes of blood. But 
now with his lips pressed together, and with the attitude and 
mien of a man who meant to weigh the case and to do what 
was right, he comes forward and demands a fair trial. This 
was one of those days when the good Spirit was near to the 
governor. His savage nature seemed softened by the divine 
presence. He had heard of Jesus, and his conscience re- 
proved him that he had already taken sides with the persecu- 
tors, and commissioned his soldiers to aid the band that ap- 
prehended him. And now a meek look from the prisoner 
as he had passed from his presence, spoke so serenely of in- 
nocence, that the heart of the Roman was touched with a 
tenderness that had not warmed it before. What is the ac- 
cusation that you bring ? But the accusers saw their plans 
thwarted ; they read a reflection of their own guilt in the jus- 
tice of this unjust judge ; and it was with the petulance of 
mortified and baffled and remorseful men, that they smartly 
replied, ^^If he were not a malefactor we would not have de- 
livered him unto thee." We, the patterns of morality and 
religion, so marvelously strict that we will not cross your 
polluted threshold — and can you, the representative of hea- 
then Rome, the blood-stained governor, the merciless judge, 
can such as you question our justice ? Remorse inflamed 
their suspicions, and disappointment roused their impudence. 
Irritated at this contempt of court, but awed by the determin- 
ed feelings which prompted it, Pilate mingles in his answer 
a latent sarcasm, with his first attempt to throw off from him- 
self the responsibility of what seemed inevitable. ^' Take ye 
him and judge him according to your law." Punish him 
yourselves if you can, as for me, I will have no concern in it. 



CHARACTER OF PILATE. 261 

He felt the power which that mass of opposition would not 
fail to gain over him. With that foresight which often ac- 
companies conscious weakness, he read his own ruin in the 
maddened faces of the crowd. But in that very acknowledge- 
ment of imbecility, in that very effort to run away from the 
struggle to which his better nature called him, he loosened 
the ground on which he was standing, he threw away those 
latent enera;ies which he micrht have summoned for a glorious 
conflict, and a glorious victory of right. '' Take ye him, 
and judge him according to your law." 

Yet the enemies of Jesus, as with do\^nncast eyes, they re- 
plied that their law was unavailing, plainly saw that the judge 
was not to be trifled with. Havincr collected their thoucrhts 
from the first surprise at their reception, they looked about 
for data, with which to prosecute the case. What now must 
they do, in this novel and unexpected position. It w^as hard 
work to condemn their victim even before a Jewish court, 
what must it be before the stern and impartial scrutiny of a 
Roman tribunal. It was very evident that the blasphemy 
and sacrilege at which the president of the Sanhedrim had 
seemed on the evening previous so piously enraged, would 
have little effect on the mind of a heathen judge. They must 
devise some charge gross enough for him to appreciate, and 
one too which will appeal to his national prejudices and his 
selfish interests. They accordingly present an accusation of 
which nothing at all had been said on the former trial, and 
with which as Jews they could have no concern, except as 
the cringing informers of the government that oppressed them ; 
an accustion therefore as mean as it was palpably false — that 
he had set himself up as king, and commanded to be appro- 
priated to his own use, the tribute that was due to Caesar. 
Most sensitive would the governor be to such a charge, for 
the provincial revenue w^as the chief object of his official 
guardianship, and the source of his emolument. He folt as 
has been said, " his own freehold now touched," — " it was 



262 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

time for him to stir." Accordingly he withdrew to the apart- 
ment where Jesus had been confined, and put to him the 
question with a mingled expression of alarm and pity : " Art 
thou the king of the Jews ?" And here it is, that the super- 
ficial character of his opinions, and the general weakness of 
his spirit most clearly manifest themselves. The prisoner in 
assenting to the title, explains the spiritual and harmless na- 
ture of his kingdom, and his high destiny as a maintainer of 
the truth. But all this was beyond the governor's compre- 
hension. He had heard of the learned discussions of the 
Sophists, of the kingdom ascribed by the Stoics to their great 
men, and like a true soldier he disdained what was mystical. 
He felt its political harmlessness, but he did not see its moral 
force. To his eye it was a figment of idle scholasticism. 
*^ What is truth ]" is the careless half-jesting question with 
w^hich he met the spiritual mystery. Oh ! had he but paused 
for an answer, had he lingered to gain the truth as it is in Je- 
sus, he would not have gone back to be tossed about at the will 
of a rabble, he would have carried with him a talisman potent 
against every temptation. Pilate, thou dost bear with thee 
the truth, though a sneer is on thy visage, but ah ! thou art 
destined to become its weak minister ; for when its fountain- 
head was opened to thee, thou didst turn coldly away. 

When Pilate returns to the multitude in the open court, it 
is to proclaim aloud the innocence of Jesus. But ever-sug- 
gestive malice is prepared to renew the conflict. Instantly 
the charge takes a new form — that he had been guilty of stir- 
ring up the people to sedition, making Galilee the chief seat 
of disturbances. The inhabitants of Galilee were distinguish- 
ed for a love of liberty, which theoretically took the form of 
a theocracy. They had moreover rendered themselves pecu- 
liarly obnoxious to Pilate, as we read that on a certain occa- 
sion he had mingled their blood with their sacrifices. How 
plausible and ingenious then was this new accusation at the 
bar of the judge, and how must he appear to the govern- 



CHARACTER OF PILATE. 263 

ment at home, as the already indignant populace will repre- 
sent him, if he acquit the man accused by his own nation 
as treacherous. He remembers the old reproof of the em- 
peror, and he feels his dependence on the good feelings of the 
Jews. But stop ! ^^ beginning at Galilee" — instantly a new 
thought occurs to the perplexed governor. To the jurisdic- 
tion of Herod the prisoner appropriately belongs. He will 
send him to the Tetrarch. There was his second parley 
with conscience. Another barrier of his moral nature is torn 
away. Weaker and weaker becomes the principle of jus- 
tice. Slowly but surely press on the mob, as they see the 
Governor yieldinor inch by inch. Pilate must fall. 

Herod was now occupying another part of the same pa- 
lace where Pilate was quartered. He was a weak-minded 
man, as he had sho^vn himself in beheading John to please a 
giddy girl. He received Christ as if he were a juggler. He 
treated him like a buffoon, and finally sent him back to the 
apartment of Pilate, arrayed in the worn out habiliments of 
his own royalty, but clearinor him from every charge of guilt. 
And all that the governor gains from this miserable subterfuge, 
is the termination of his long quarrel with Herod. What a 
spectacle when the King of kings becomes the involuntary 
arbiter between these rival and petty powers. 

What now shall the governor do ? He has made friends 
with Herod, but not with conscience or the Jews. The di- 
lemma is again upon him. The priests and elders stand be- 
fore him with hungry eyes. The stern monitor worries him 
for another effort to release the prisoner. Added to the mo- 
nitions from within, are the soft beseechings of affectionate 
alarm from without. The wife of Pilate had accompanied 
him to Palestine, and was now with him at Jerusalem. This 
was contrary to the provincial laws of the Roman govern- 
ment, but the peculiar fondness of this woman had probably 
occasioned a special indulgence in the case of Pilate. In the 
brief and solitary mention made of her, she seems like a good 



264 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

angel in the group of the blood-thirsty and the halting. She 
had heard from some female companion the story of Jesus, 
and by that power of sympathy with which his person and 
character seem uniformly to have affected her sex, her mind 
became intensely excited. Anxiety for his fate made her 
dreams feverish and frightful, and the glimpse she had of his 
grief-worn countenance as he passed along from Herod's hall, 
recalled to her memory, and invested with new and terrible 
meaning the visions of her sleep. With prophetic eye she 
sees the fearful doom that overhangs her own family, and the 
imploring word she sends in to her husband is, ^* Have thou 
nothing to do with that just man." Along with that voice of 
tenderness, comes the old charge from the maddened Jews, that 
the prisoner had styled himself the Son of God. " And when 
Pilate heard that, he was the more afraid." The Roman faith 
in dreams, and a superstitious fear that perchance some god of 
his own mythology might be standing at his bar, now added 
force and energy to the appeals of conscience. He is roused to 
another effort for the innocent, but ah ! how imbecile, how sui- 
cidal. It was a custom of the Roman government, to secure 
popular favor, by occasionally releasing prisoners, and the 
Jewish law seemed to point to the passover as the appropri- 
ate season for this act of clemency. There was another Je- 
sus now at Pilate's bar — a man hateful for every atrocity — 
Barabbas, or Jesus the son of Abbas. He will let them 
choose between the two. Surely the mild and gentle one 
will have greater claims on their compassion, and they will 
cry out with one voice for his rescue. But oh ! weak gov- 
ernor, dost thou not see that in this miserable subterfuge, 
thou hast yielded the two great points in the controversy, and 
sealed the fate of the man thou wouldst fain save. Who ever 
heard of release or pardon for one on trial, and uncondem- 
ned? Thou hast admitted in this very proposal, all that the 
insatiate priests have thirsted for, that Jesus is guilty. Thou 
dost not distinguish between him and the robber who bears 



CHARACTER OF PILATE. 265 

his name. Thou dost give up thine o\mi right of judgment, 
the only hope of the innocent, to a prejudiced and infuriate 
rabble ; and canst thou wonder at the mad shout that bursts 
back upon thee ? '* Not this man but Barabbas.'' Where 
now is thy conscience, and the dream and warning of thy 
wife, and thy own sagacious plans. Pilate, there is but one 
step more for thee to take. 

And that step the governor is not long in taking. Foolish 
man ! in the confusion of his embarrassment, he fancied 
there might be compassion in the bosoms before him, and to 
that he would make one touching appeal. '' I will therefore 
chastise him and let him go."' And accordingly Jesus is 
handed over to the ruthless soldiers, and his garments are 
stripped off, and his tender flesh exposed to that horrible 
whip under which many a hardy Roman soldier had perish- 
ed. And when he is led forth again to the pavement where 
his enemies are standing, it is with his limbs lacerated and 
bleeding, his face disfigured and swollen, his bosom heaving 
with the feverish excitement with which his whole system was 
acritated — and over all, were orathered the insiornia of mock 
royalty, pressing with thorns his bleeding forehead, or half 
covering with military garb his wounded body. Pilate saith 
unto them, " Behold the man I"' Those words and that 
scene have become immortal. Painters have dipped their 
pencils in that purple robe, and sought for ages to depict that 
expression of suffering royalty. The church of God caught 
up the motto and the image, and pressed them to her bosom. 
But those, before whom they stood in the power and fresh- 
ness of life, who gazed on the streaming wounds, and heard 
from cruelty herself a pitying voice, " Behold the man,*' look- 
ed sternly and coldly upon the scene. *' Yea and behold 
him well," exclaims bishop Hall, " behold him well, O thou 
proud Pilate ! O ye cruel soldiers ! O ye insatiable Jews ! Ye 
see him base, whom ye shall see glorious ; the time shall surely 
come, wherem ye shall see him in another dress. He shall 

23 



266 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

shine, whom ye now see to bleed ; his crown can not be now 
so ignominious and painful as it shall be once majestical 
and precious." 

Alas for Pilate, he knew not what he did. There are 
some beasts of prey whom the scent or the sight of blood will 
madden with such ferocity, that the appetite must be glutted 
or there can be no peace. The sight of the scourge on this 
occasion seems to have inflamed rather than appeased the 
thirst for vengeance ; and there was one dreadful thought 
which it suggested. In the succession of Roman punishment, 
scourging was the invariable preliminary of crucifixion ; and 
now, they who have seen the prelude must behold the ter- 
rible catastrophe. *' Behold the man" — but the shout which 
meets that exclamation of pity is, '^ Crucify him," *' Crucify 
him" — and with that stern demand, there are voices of warn- 
ing which reach the ear of the appalled governor. '' If thou 
let this man go, thou art not Caesar's friend"—'^ Away with 
him — Crucify him." Pilate thine hour has come. Tardy 
has been the process but sure. Thy spiritual doom is now 
consummated. The struggle is over. Thy weak nature has 
no more subterfuges to suggest. Conscience will not again 
lift her voice to be trifled with. Henceforth thou art shat- 
tered, bedridden, the wreck of thy former manhood. 

** Then Pilate took water, and washed his hands before the 
multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just per- 
son : see ye to it." Empty, vain, ceremonial — from a soldier, 
from a Roman — yet fit emblem of the emptiness of principle 
which drove him to that cowardly refuge ; fit emblem of the 
vanity of such a plea of innocence. A few drops of water to 
wipe out that " damned spot," when his agonized utterance 
should rather have been, 

"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
Clean from my hand ? No ! this my hand will rathei 
The multitudinous seas incarnadine, 
Making the green — one red." 



CHARACTER OF PILATE. 267 

Well has an old English poet represented him as under the 
wares, and nothing visible but his hands eternally washmg 
themselves. 

" He lookt a little further, and espyde 

Another '>\Tetch, whose c areas deepe was drent 
Within the river, which the same did hyde ; 

But both his handes, most filthy feculent, 
Above the water were on high extent. 

And faynd to wash themselves incessantlv, 
Yet nothing cleaner were for such intent, 

But rather fowler seemed to the eve ; 
So lost his labour vaine and ydle industry. 

The knight him calling, asked who he was, 
Who lifting up his head, him answered thus : 

* I Pilate am, the falsest iudge, alas I 
And most uniust, that by unrighteous 

And wicked doome, to Jewes despiteous. 
Delivered up the Lord of life to dye, 

And did acquite a murdrer felonous, 

The v.'hyles my handes I washt in purity, 

The whyles my soule was soyled with foul iniquity." " 

There are several important moral lessons, which the char- 
acter and history of Pilate invite us to contemplate. To a 
few of these, I propose now to call your attention. 

First, We see the influence of a previous bad character in 
leadincr a man into sin. 

It is one of the most terrible retributions of a course of sin, 
that it so involves the criminal that he seems bound by a fa- 
tal attraction. " He is in so far in guilt that sin will pluck 
on sin." The act committed ages ago seems to stand by 
his side this very day, and though hated and shunned from 
his inmost soul, and though ten thousand voices cry out 
against its repetition, there is a dreadful sympathy between 
the past and the present which shapes the destiny of the sin- 



268 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

ner for ruin. So was it with Pilate. If he had sustained the 
character of an equitable judge, the infuriated mob would 
never have dared to commit to him the fate of their victim. 
If his administration had not been previously corrupt, he 
would not have been appalled at the threats of the populace. 
Calm and unmoved he would have faced that opposition, fear- 
lessly would he have stood forth in defence of right. But as 
it was, his reputation for past cruelty was the very circum- 
stance which involved him in this forced and reluctant trans- 
gression. It was the very temptation which stood like a flam- 
ing sword at the threshold of reform, baffling every pure 
purpose, and barring his progress toward virtue. It was the 
very reminiscence which made the threats of the multitude 
so pungent, and their appeals so confident, as to a man who 
had become weak and cowardly under Jong indulgence. Alas ! 
the governor has no weight of character, with which to with- 
stand the solicitations and menaces which environ him. The 
conviction that Jesus is innocent, forces itself upon him at 
every corner to which he turns. Conscience utters its clear 
note of duty. And a threatening cloud hangs over the path- 
way into which his cowardice would drive him. But it is to 
decayed and decrepid and easily subdued sensibilities that 
the call is now uttered, and he has but a tottering form with 
which to bufiet opposition. The moral nature of the man is 
broken down, and it seems as if he must go wrong. Oh ! 
my friend, shun the sin of this day, if you would not have it 
come back upon you like a monster to whom you have sold 
yourself, and who will not fail to return, though it may be af- 
ter long delay, to claim you as his rightful victim. At the 
very moment when you seem most near to heaven, at the 
very moment when all the principles of your better nature are 
rallying for your rescue, and the bars of your dungeon are al- 
most broken, that old sin may come back, and smile coldly 
upon you through the iron grate, and mock your weak efforts 
to break from the imprisonment, and beckon you back to its 



CHARACTER OF PILATE. 269 

old fellowship, aiid come in to lie down with you upon your 
bed of restlessness, as if determined to allow no peace to your 
sin-bartered soul. 

Secondly, We may learn from the history of Pilate, the 
importance of firmness in support of truth and right. 

When a man wavers from the first, or tries to compromise 
the matter with his conscience, or meet duty at half way, he 
is always sure to be driven back upon the very sin he is al- 
most determined to avoid. There is no neutral ground which 
the moral nature can occupy with safety. There are unseen 
powers at work, watching its irregular action, looking upon 
its doubts, noting down its hesitancies, and taking fresh cour- 
age from every lapse to win it to their own snares. If the 
man move slowly in the pathway of duty, and ever and anon 
look wistfully back upon the sin he is leaving behind, and in- 
stead of settling the matter by one bold and decisive step, is 
veerincr off in this direction and that, and trvinor to shift the 
responsibility, and pausing and trembling and doing his little 
right with a pale face and a faltering gait, such a man must 
fall in the end. So have we seen one upon a rock, with the 
sea circling his tabernacle and crossing his pathway, and even 
calling to him as with a mother's voice ; and the tide and the 
waves ever gain upon him, and already presume to touch 
with their damp breath the lower fringes of his garment, 
and it is only by one desperate exertion that he can clear the 
flood, and rest himself above and beyond its gaping mouth — 
but still he hesitates and calculates and edges along his little 
island, and looks over his shoulder at the advancing billows 
as if ashamed to turn his back on danger, and all the while 
the surges boil more furiously, and the ground grows slimy 
beneath his feet, and by and by the wet spray touches his 
forehead ; but still he pauses and doubts and edges along, 
till the irritated sea pours over him, and he goes to be seen 
no more. How strikingly did this weakness and irresolution, 
this dallying with duty, this shuffling of responsibility, this 

23* 



270 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

edging along upon the rock instead of leaping to the shore, 
seal the ruin of the Roman governor. Oh ! had he but bold- 
ly responded to that look which the Saviour gave him, had 
the majesty of the old Roman looked out at his eye as he pro- 
claimed the innocence of the victim, had he that moment 
laid down unhesitatingly the parley with conscience, all would 
have been well. But no ! afraid to act right, and more afraid 
to act wrong, he is tossed about between those two terrors 
till he hits upon the first expedient for relief, which is the 
first step in a downward series to crime. " Take ye him, 
and judge him according to your law." Three more steps 
has he to take in this lingering process, each essential, each 
inevitable ; for his moral nature will not allow him to break 
away at once from its dictates, while the mob as they read 
only of ultimate success in his already betrayed weakness, 
press on till they push him down. Conscience comes back 
to his rescue, after the questioning of the criminal, but he 
finds refuge from its clear glance in the court of Herod, and 
takes his next step downward. And now yet again must the 
governor pause, when even the ferocious Tetrarch sends back 
the prisoner uncondemned — and the safety of Herod's friend- 
ship would encourage, and the dream of his wife would warn, 
and the still unsubdued voice within would make one more 
appeal. But no ! he has gone too far to recede. Barabbas 
comes to his rescue, and helps him down another step, and 
the shouts of the multitude proclaim that his descent is al- 
most consummated. And at last well-nigh desperate from 
the loner struDrale, he takes the scourore, with a haste so 
ill-advised, that it does but arm him for the work of death he 
has not dared avoid, and as little dared perform. Alas ! such 
efforts for Christ, prove but stopping places of crime, where 
he can pause and breathe, before collecting himself for the 
last great sacrifice. After all these struggles, he ends by 
condemnincr to death, the man whose character even malice 
cannot impeach, and whose innocence he proclaims with the 



CHARACTER OF PILATE. 271 

very breath that utters the sentence. And this lingering, pain- 
ful process does Pilate undergo, rather than boldly summon his 
moral energies for one simple act of right. Oh! my friends, 
when duty claims your action, look it steadily in the face, 
and turning neither to the right hand nor the left, march 
boldly forward. Conscience holds no fellowship with those 
who avail themselves of an effeminate and pusillanimous pol- 
icy, for keeping friendship with both right and wrong. Duty 
lies in a straight line. It is the shortest possible distance be- 
tween two points, your own soul and right. If you come at 
it by an angle, you come the roundabout, ^\Tong way. You 
satisfy neither conscience nor the devil. You make a war 
within you, which will not terminate till you go back and 
stop at the wrong angle. 

Thirdly, We may learn from the history of Pilate, that a 
regard for popular favor, when opposed to conscience and 
right, vrill often defeat its own ends. 

The exclusive study of present, immediate effect is almost 
always at the expense of ultimate reputation. The very rest- 
lessness which prompts to a sacrifice of duty on the altar of 
human applause, betrays a want of self-respect and dignity of 
character which the multitude will in the end despise. That 
is the true basis of lasting popularity, which lifts itself firmly 
in defence of truth, which heeds not the paroxysms of rage, 
which displays such elements of character as the sober, ma- 
tured thought of the people will be proud to claim in support 
of their rights. The traitor of his country or his party is al- 
most always in the end despised by the enemy whom he has 
staked all to gratify, and the hosts of darkness will jeer at no 
victim with bitterer scorn, than him who sold the birthriorht 
of his moral nature, for the breathings of one day's applause. 

So was it with Pilate. He might have known that he was 
giving himself up to the force of a temporary excitement. 
He might have known that the deep, settled hatred against Je- 
sus, was confined to a limited cabal, while the phrenzy of the 



272 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

mob would soon subside. Had he stood out boldly against the 
torrent, the mass of the people in the reaction of their excite- 
ment, would have rallied around him as a favorite. But in 
the confusion of the moment he was as insane as he was 
wicked, and he did but pave the way for his own downfall. 

There is another mode in which this motive in a bad man, 
will defeat its own end. It often places him in a position of 
fictitious popularity. The favor that surrounds him, is as 
phrenzied as that which hurried him to sin. He revels in 
the luxury of smiles, till it proves his ruin. His passions 
grow rampant in the short-lived sunshine, till they bring upon 
themselves swift retribution. So was it with Pilate. In re- 
ward for the indulgence he had granted the Jews, he seems 
to have assumed for himself an unbridled license of cruelty. 
A short time after, a real impostor appeared in Samaria, and 
in quelling this new excitement, the governor practised up- 
on the principles he had learned at the trial of Jesus, and 
conducted himself with a brutal recklessness, which could 
be borne no longer. The very men who had urged him to 
crucify our Lord, and for whom he had violated the sacred 
rights of conscience, now rose in a body, and demanded his 
removal. Even the court of Rome shunned the society of 
the favor-seeking office-holder. He was at length driven to 
a place of exile, where like Judas ^' he went out and hanged 
himself" Fit end for the traitor and the cringing judge, and 
the applauses of the multitude proved as worthless to the one, 
as the thirty pieces of silver to the other ; for they too did but 
purchase a burial-place for the bribed. 

There is still another respect in which we may see how 
suicidal is a course like Pilate's. The very act for which he 
threw away his conscience, that he might please the Jews, 
and avoid the anger of Caesar, is the same that has given him 
an immortality of infamy. Throughout the world, wherever 
the name of Pontius Pilate is mentioned, it is to reproach 
his wanton injustice in delivering Jesus to be crucified. It 



CHAKACTER OF PILATE. 273 

is a stigma eternally attached to his character. He is known, 
he is remembered for nothing else. Yea, a direful retribu- 
tion has burst upon him from the very source of which he 
was most in terror. Oh I my friends, there is a kind of am- 
bition, which is noble and dignified, and worthy of moral be- 
ings — and it is so, because it arrays itself against that prin- 
ciple, which so often leads to mischief When you find the 
fear of the world frightening you from duty, or the love of 
the world alluring you to sin. Oh I that you would pause a 
moment, and enlarge the sphere of your vision, before you 
act. Remember that the world is more than that gather- 
ing of friends whose praises you court, whose taunts you 
shun. It comprehends the infinity of duration, the universe 
of beinor. Act as if such a world were indeed watchinor 
you, as if all posterity were looking in at the door of your 
heart, as if eternity fixed its calm, clear gaze upon you: and 
^^ surrounded by so great a cloud of v.itnesses," you dare not 
act wrong. Oh ! how the plaudits of the present, will fade 
away before one glance from the keen-sighted, deep-voiced 
future. How mean will appear the ambition which is limi- 
ted by life, compared with that which is eternal and all-per- 
vading as conscience. 

Fourthly, We may learn from this subject that a bad man 
may become God's agent in the accomplishment of good. 

An old divine has remarked, that the dream of Pilate's 
wife may have been suggested by Satan, in order to prevent 
the crucifixion of an atoninor Saviour. But no effort of the 
prince of darkness, any more than the strugglings of human 
depravity can frustrate the purposes of the Almighty. He 
fixes his calm eye on the operations of his universe, and the 
conflicts of nations and the strifes of men, are the parts of 
his counsel, and do but subserve his great designs. Whoever 
doubted the liberty of the Roman Governor ? Who can have 
failed to notice in his sad history, the marks of an inward 
strucrcrle where the laws of his own mind, and the dictates of 



274 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

his free, moral nature were at work. And yet how the sacred 
history reminds us that each event was foreshadowed by pro- 
phecy, and transpired in wonderful harmony with the purpose 
of God. As has been well observed, ^' It is Pilate's tongue 
that says, I find in him no fault at all. It is the Jews' 
tongue in Pilate's mouth that says, Let him be crucified. 
That cruel sentence cannot blot him whom this attestation 
clear eth," neither does that long struggle retard one moment 
the designs of Jehovah. How a divine hand seems to be up- 
on the governor, determined to make each step of his erring 
nature speak forth of the innocence and divinity of his victim. 
How an Almighty Power is controlling and guiding every 
event in the direction of that greatest product of benevolence, 
the redemption of the world by the death of Jesus. And the 
act which is the last yielding of a tempted man, becomes 
'' the wisdom and power of God unto salvation." Oh! man, 
whosoever, wheresoever thou art, that thinkest by thy weak 
resistance to frustrate the counsel of Jehovah, consider this ; 
an eye discerns and superintends thy slightest motions, a 
power is working in thee and with thee, and bearing thee on- 
ward to consummate the purposes of thy being. Though it is 
thyself, the free, the manly, the godlike that acts, thou canst 
not hope by thy mad efforts to thwart one plan of thy Maker, 
or to derange that great wheel in which thou art revolving. 
And in anguish thou shalt one day behold, how all the strug- 
glings of thy distempered nature, and the crafty plans of 
sin thou didst devise, did but work together for the glory of 
Him who created thee. Thou shalt suffer for that thou didst 
intend, rather than that thou didst accomplish. The evil is 
all thine own, the good is all thy God's. Yea, '^ the wrath of 
man shall praise Thee." 

Finally, Let no one of us say, if I had been upon that 
judgment seat, Christ should not have been so condemned. 

My friends, are we not conscious, some of us, of possessing 
similar elements in our own character. Is our past life so 



CHARACTER OF PILATE. 275 

spotless, that we never find ourselves involved in new sin, by 
the fellowship of old transgression, or the power of long-cher- 
ished habit ? Do we not hesitate and waver, and choose the 
rivers of Damascus rather than the waters of Israel, and try 
to make a truce with conscience, by doing half our duty ? 
And at the very moment, when we are ready to yield, does 
not the fear of the world alarm, and do not its voices and its 
charms sometimes drag us back from virtue ? Oh ! my im- 
penitent friend, I think I behold Jesus this day standing at 
the bar of your heart, and pleading for his long neglected 
rights. There are passions within, that gaze with fierce 
countenance upon the meek one, and goad you on, to con- 
summate your sin by crucifying him afresh. But there are 
better affections which prompt you to look tenderly upon the 
self-arraigned, and conscience, like a fond queen that watches 
and weeps, sends in its notes of remonstrance, and calls up its 
visions of terror — ^' Many things have I suffered this day in 
a dream because of him." Fearful is the struggle of your 
moral nature. For a moment, you hope to conciliate the 
hostile parties, and your agitated mind betakes itself to He- 
rod's bar, to an act of compromise, to the delay of a more 
convenient season. But aorain the conflict returns, and closer 
and hotter upon each other press the opposing ranks, and 
louder waxes the voice of duty and the call of crime. And 
then some darling sin comes forth for competition, and lays 
itself down on the altar of sacrifice, and mocks you with men- 
aces of departure, and presses you this instant to choose 
between itself and Christ, while the alarmed passions raise 
the infuriated shout, " not this man, but Barabbas." Yet 
still you hesitate and waver — the scourge is in your hand, the 
cross is before you, but you know not whether to nail upon 
it your Saviour or your sin. And now fear raises her pallid 
form, and cries out as with ten thousand voices, "If thou let 
this man go, thou art not Caesar's friend." Oh ! my brother, 
take heed how this trial terminate. Take heed in memory 



276 CHARACTER OF PILATE. 

of that great assize, where Pilate and thou and I shall one 
day stand. Then shall the terms and the parties in contro- 
versy be changed. Then shall He sit upon the judgment 
seat of the world, who now stands imploringly before the 
judgment seat of our souls. 



NOTE. 

The preceding discourse was regarded by Mr. Homer as his most 
elaborate, and in some respects, his best. It cost him an extensive 
perusal of German commentaries, of Philo, Josephus, and other an- 
cient authors. He never preached it to his own people ; for his aim 
in the ministry was, not to advance his own reputation, but to consult 
the good of his hearers; and the state of his society required, during 
the brief period of his ministration a diiferent style of address from that 
which he has here adopted. He preached the sermon first at Ando- 
ver. Theological Chapel ; afterwards atDanvers, Mass. ; Salem, Crom- 
bie-street church; Boston, Park-street church; Buffalo, N. Y. ; and 
Exeter, N. H. He was intending to preach it at South Berwick as 
soon as the wants of his people required. 



SEEMOxN II. 



THE NEGLECT OF DUTY AN OCCASION OF 
POSITIVE SIN. 



If thou doest not well, sin lieth at the dook. — Genesis 4: 7. 

It has been supposed by some critics, that the warning in 
the text is founded upon a mode of personifying sin peculiar 
to the Hebrew theology. These critics imagine that sin is 
here represented as a reptile crouching at the door of the hu- 
man heart, watching its actions and emotions, and ready to 
burst in upon it in its moments of sluggishness or repose. 
Whether this interpretation be the right one, I care not now 
to decide. If it be correct, however, the image must not be 
carried beyond the general principle it is meant to shadow 
forth. It cannot be designed to intimate under this imagery 
that sin is actually something without the soul, independent 
of the will — a power tyrannizing over the man in his hours 
of spiritual exhaustion, and when he cannot escape or resist 
its wiles. Sin is the free act of a mord agent, and beyond 
the sphere of that free action, it has no existence but that 
which is fictitious or figurative. Neither can the text imply 
that the neglect to do well would be harmless, provided it 
were not followed by positive transgression. The sin of 
omission may be as aggravated as the sin of commission ; and 
when the man has neglected known duty, there is no further 

24 



278 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 

Step for him to take in order to be in a state of sin, for he is 
already there. The simple principle which the above named 
interpreters would educe from the text is, that the least ces- 
sation from activity in well-doing leaves the heart peculiarly 
exposed to the power of temptation, and will often result in 
outbreakings of depravity which were before unsuspected. 
^^ If thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door," or, by that 
pregnant construction so frequent in the language of scrip- 
ture, it lieth at the door, and will surely enter to claim pos- 
session of thy soul. If thou live in neglect of plain and ad- 
mitted duty, besides the guilt of that negligence, thy moral 
nature is deprived of its great inward power of repelling sin, 
and by that first criminal omission thou dost start in a down- 
ward career which will not cease till thou retrace thy steps 
and satisfy the first demand of conscience for duty. 

It will be my object not to defend the interpretation w^hich 
has been given, but to assume it, as I may rightly do by way 
of accommodation, and to apply the words thus interpreted, to 
those who have alreadv commenced the religious life, and I 
shall attempt to show, that the neglect of known duty will be 
likely to lead the Christian into positive sia. 

I. One argument in support of this proposition is, that 
such a neglect will weaken the power of conscience to re- 
strain him from sin. 

Every Christian is sensible how much he is dependent up- 
on the clear and reo-ular action of this inward monitor. If 
it utter its notes of warning with distinct and manly tone, if 
it hold back the tempted soul with a giant's grasp, its right 
may be vindicated in the darkest and most trying hour. But 
if it speak with a hesitating utterance or touch with a timid 
hand, the slightest wave may sweep over its fortresseSj the 
slightest volition may defeat its sway. Now for a healthful 
and active state of the moral faculty, there is nothing so es- 
sential as a complete and symmetrical development of the 
christian character ; such a development as is secured only 



EVILS OF NEGLECTIXG DUTY. 279 

by the active exercise of all its powers, by the faithful dis- 
charge of all its duties. Conscience is a most sensitive 
axrent — easilv offended, easilv diseased. If it be sliorhted or 
corrupted in one department of its acrency, it v\'ill avenge the 
neglect or show the fruits of the corruption through the whole 
range of its administration. To-day, it comes to the Christian 
urging his performance of duty : to-morrow, it presses him to 
fly from sin. As is the obedience he renders now to its clear 
injunction, so v^•ill be the readiness with which it will after- 
wards return to avert his danger. This is the great law of 
reciprocity which pervades his moral constitution. If to-day 
he turn coldly from the beseeching voice, or defer the call to 
duty to a more convenient season, or deliberately choose a 
state of easy, quiet disobedience ; to-morrow, when conscience 
finds him hard-pressed by the world, and just falling a prey 
to temptation, it comes to him as one who has broken his 
truce, who merits not and desires net its moral aid, who will 
listen but feebly though it speak in thunder-tones — and its 
dithdent warning is scarcely heard amid the uproar of pas- 
sion. Only the Christian who does his duty with fidelity and 
constancy, can maintain a peace with his great moral guide, 
and bear about within him, a protector which shall never fail 
him. But he who is negligent and careless of the work 
which God and his moral nature enjoin upon him, is ever 
removing farther and farther beyond the sphere of conscience, 
and as has been said, '' to him its voice is low and weak, 
chastising the passions as old Eli did his lustful domineering 
sons. Not so, my sons, not so." It has lost the conscious- 
ness of its own power. Its original manhood is gone. 

II. I proceed to notice as another circumstance which ex- 
poses the negligent Christian to sin, that his moral habits 
have become perverted. 

We are, as has been often observed, creatures of habit ; 
and it is a wise provision of our Creator, encouraging us in 
the path of duty, and warning us at the very threshold of a 



280 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 

life of sin. He who is faithful to the demands of duty has a 
strong auxiliary against sin, in the rectitude and regularity 
of his habits. The course of virtue becomes for him the 
easiest course. The constant exercise of any part of the 
bodily system will invariably strengthen those faculties which 
are called into use, and render their action more easy and 
more efficient. And in the spiritual system the eye that has 
been ever occupied with moral beauty becomes quick to 
discern its graces or its blemishes, and the arm that has been 
exercised and strengthened in the line of christian activity, 
has acquired vigor to wrestle with temptation, and to batter 
down the arts of sin. The affections too have all been culti- 
vated in the life of rectitude, the love of goodness has been 
constantly increasing with its exercise, and sin has become 
more odious as the soul has risen above its transitory joys. 
For the momentary raptures of sinful pleasure, such a well 
educated nature will never leave the steady and delightful 
sources of its elevated happiness. By constant exercise it 
has fortified itself against the inroads of moral decrepitude, 
and enclosed itself round about as with walls of adamant. 
But it is not so with the Christian who has broken in upon 
the harmony and evenness of his own spiritual constitution ; 
who has suffered some links in the golden chain to be lost, 
some stones to be pushed out from the perfect structure ; 
who has learned the first lessons of sin by forsaking the path 
which conscience pointed out to him ; who has weakened 
his powers of spiritual action by suffering them to lie dor- 
mant ; above all, who has lost the sweetness of a sense of in- 
ward purity which demands no higher love, no higher joy. 
When temptation comes to him, he cannot meet it with that 
love of holiness begotten only by the constant maintenance 
of an active, holy life. And the habit he has acquired of neg- 
lecting christian duty makes it now his most natural course 
to neglect the great duty of resisting sin. 

III. The neglect of duty may deprive the Christian of that 



EVILS OF XEGLECTIXG DUTY. '281 

which is directly and purposely designed to restrain him from 
sin. 

God has so ordered it that the spiritual nutriment of his 
children is obtained in the performance of christian duty. 
This is the economy of religion. The man who is faithful 
to the requirements of his God is furnished with so many 
barriers against temptation, while the negligent and sluggish 
disarm themselves of every weapon with which they could 
conquer the spiritual foe. The man who is faithful aiid dili- 
gent in the study of God's word cannot read those indignant 
reproofs of sin, and those exposures of its awful consequences, 
without having his hatred and his dread increased, and the 
lamp he lights at such an altar will not soon go out. The 
man who communes daily with God, who pours out to him 
his soul in secret penitence, who prays for spiritual strength, 
will secure the aid for which he asks, will avoid the sin for 
which he mourns, will be raised above the power of earth by 
assimilation with the Infinite and Holy. The man who fre- 
quents the communion of the saints, in whose soul is a warm 
tide of christian sympathy, who watches with fond jealousy 
for the good of his brethren, will find in turn his own errings 
kindly traced and reproved, his own feet recalled by tender 
and watchful affection, his own soul purified by intimacy 
with the friends of Jesus. The man who prays and labors 
for the conversion of sinners shall not only hide, but prevent 
a multitude of his own sins. He will be more careful for 
the consistency of his example, and at each temptation to 
stray, he will be frightened back by the prospect of injured 
and ruined souls. The man who devotes his property to the 
service of the church, is not tempted to revel hi earthly van- 
ities, or to cling to his treasures with a miser's grasp. And 
through the whole course of christian action, there is not a 
duty which does not receive its corresponding reward. But 
the man who looks coldly and infrequently upon his bible, 
who is a stranger in his closet, who shuns the company of 

24* 



282 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 

Christ's flock, who has no love for souls, no devotion to the 
cause of charity, — such a one throws away his best armor. 
The contest that goes on within his soul is an unequal con- 
test. On one side, is a depraved nature with propensities 
alert and active and craving for indulgence ; on the other, is 
the principle of holy love famished for want of nutriment, 
unarmed wath the panoply of duty, and unable to repress the 
onset. What w^onder that the Christian falls into frequent 
sin if he neglect the only, the divinely appointed means for 
his own rescue. 

IV. The neglect of duty will deprive the Christian of the 
influence of a good hope. 

Hope is one great incentive to spiritual exertion ; a most 
important aid to successful striving against sin. There are 
many portions of the church, where the worst thing that is 
said of a man is that he has lost his hope. In that brief ex- 
pression are crowded all the elements of spiritual ruin. It is 
the epitaph of the buried soul. It tells of the wreck of chris- 
tian principle, of the inner man where sin may stalk as in a 
wilderness, of the last hold on virtue gone. The old fable 
that let loose corruption and wo and sin upon the creatures 
of earth, did shrew^dly confine hope within the casket, lest it 
should go forth to breathe its pure spirit over corruption, and 
turn the bad to good. In a firm, good christian hope, sin 
meets its strongest antagonist. The man who possesses it 
has a confidence and assurance which will nerve his arm and 
secure the victory. The breastplate of faith and love is not 
sufficient without the hope of salvation for a helmet. And 
sin will rage now^here with more despotic sway than in that 
dark world, where hope never comes with its cheering, ani- 
mating ray, with its pure and elevating impulses. 

Now the Christian who neglects his duty must be con- 
stantly depriving himself of this great moral auxiliary. His 
energies will gradually sink down in discouragement. Sen- 
sible of his spiritual deficiencies, he is cheered by no such 



EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 283 

prospect of heaven as will make his soul independent of the 
pleasures of sin. Deprived of the sources of happiness in the 
christian life, he falls back upon the world for comfort and 
joy. He will not walk in the avenue of christian duty to the 
fountain of living water, and he must seek refreshment at 
broken cisterns. Moreover his faith becomes dim and weak. 
He only that doeth the will of Heaven '' shall know of the 
doctrine.'"' And the neo^ligent, disobedient Christian is ha- 
rassed by a thousand doubts and fears with regard to the 
character and government of God, and becomes confused as 
to the rules of moral action and the distinction between right 
and wrong, and these depressions and doubts will make him 
puerile and powerless in his efforts against sin. He has no 
delightful consciousness of the favor of God, no sense of union 
with Jesus, no dependence on the aid of the Holy Spirit. 
He is not restrained by that most charming yet powerful in- 
fluence, the smile of a complacent Father. He has wander- 
ed from the sphere of those heavenly attractions, he has bro- 
ken the bonds which bound him to God. His soul is dark 
and solitary. He looks to the church, but instead of being 
encouraged by its fraternal sympathies, it frowns on him as 
an unworthy, inefficient member. Under these combined 
influences he loses his self-respect, and when he has lost that 
priceless treasure, the last barrier is swept away, and he be- 
comes the sport of every tempter. Oh ! how forlorn, how 
shelterless is the condition of him who is not only shut out 
from the hope of heaven, from the light of faith, from the 
sense of God's favor, from the sympathies of the church ; but 
who is deserted by himself, who becomes the object of his 
own despairing contempt. And how often that church-mem- 
ber who wakes up to the consciousness that he is faithless to 
God and to man, and disgracing his profession by a barren 
and fruitless life — how often does such a one become the 
victim of his desperate self-loathing ; sometimes to sink down 
imbecile and decrepid, and suffer every passing wheel to 



284 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 

crush him, sometimes to be urged on by hopeless forebodings 
to a course of sin. He has no consciousness of inward 
strength to sustain him in his trials. When temptation assails 
him, it is with a weak and trembling hand that he resists, and 
with a pale face which tells that he expects to be conquered, 
that he will be conquered. He finds an enemv within from 
whom he flees in terror: from whose dark, crloomy visions 
there is no refuae but that sin which drowns all other cares. 
Oh I brethren, shun this alarming state. Brace yourselves 
to the most self-denying activity in the service of your Re- 
deemer. Bring your pleasures, your property, your talents, 
your all to the altar of sacrifice, rather than become liable to 
be haunted by such a sense of your owti weakness and worth- 
lessness as shall cramp every exertion, as shall chain you with 
worse than iron to your lusts, as shall ever prey upon your 
moral nature. 

Y. A condition of idleness will peculiarly expose religious 
men to the attacks of the adversary. 

He comes to them, not only when they are depressed and 
discouraged, and too diffident of their ovra strength to resist 
with force, but he comes when the hands are unoccupied 
with spiritual and holy labors, when the moral system has 
sunk down into lassitude, and he there finds ample range for 
his arts. It is a principle applying to all departments of ac- 
tion that the want of employment will not only weaken the 
powers by depriving them of exercise, but will drive the soid 
for relief and excitement into some mischievous sphere of la- 
bor. The man that has no business to occupy his mind, and 
no cares to employ his time, you will find to be the man 
whose soul is invaded by impure imaginings — whose tongue 
is laden with slander against his neighbor. And it is pre- 
eminently true of our spiritual life. There is deep philoso- 
phy in the simple moral which we learned in childhood, that 

" Satan finds some mischief still 
For idle hands to do." 



EVILS OF NEGLECT [NG DUTY. 285 

Not that the Christian is never assailed by his great adversary, 
in the height of his spiritual activity ; for in the most labori- 
ous services for God, there may be the suggestions of pride, 
and unholy motives to overpower him. But that is the dev- 
il's hardest work, to enter the sanctuary of an active soul, and 
corrupt its impulses and purposes, and make its sacrifices like 
the unbeaten oil or the strange fire of the sanctuary. Chief- 
ly does he triumph, when he comes upon one who is asleep 
at his post, and into whose ear he may whisper his hellish 
sucrgestions, whose hands are engaged in no spiritual exer- 
cises, but are all ready for his service. Such is the empty and 
garnished house into which the unclean spirit enters, and 
finds an easy abode. Oh ! brethren, avoid this spiritual idle- 
ness. Let not its dreamy lassitude steal away your energies. 
Slumber not in the lap of this wanton who can bind you with 
cords that you cannot break when the Philistines are upon 
you. Remember who lieth at the door, watching with eagle 
eye your moments of repose, and ready to spring upon you 
in your slumbers. Whatsoever your hands find to do, do it 
unto the Lord, for if you do it not unto the Lord, you must 
do it unto your great enemy. You are so constituted that 
you must act, that you must work. ^^ Choose ye this day 
whom ye will serve.'' 

VL The necrliorent and inactive Christian is in dancrer of 
being deserted by the Holy Spirit. 

Those familiar exhortations not to grieve and not to quench 
the Spirit of God, although of late appropriated to another 
use, originally had reference to Christians. They teach that 
this divine influence does not forcibly retain possession of the 
human heart ; but if it find there no fellowship of holy action 
it will leave it as an uncongenial sphere. The true disciple 
indeed is an object of Heaven's peculiar favor, and upon him 
is set the seal of that covenant which can never be broken. 
But lie is sanctified and saved only in harmony with his own 
exertions. It is the Spirit which imparts efficiency to his 



286 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 

Strength, but if he do not exert that strength, the Spirit will 
withdraw his aid. ^^ Work out your own salvation," said the 
apostle to one of the churches of his care, ^' icorJc out your 
own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God that 
worketh in vou.'' And he micrht have added, if vou do not 
work yourselves, God will not be working in you. He dis- 
dains to abide in a stupid soul. He prefers rather to be the life 
of those that live. And if there be one condition of unwon- 
ted melancholv, it is that of the Christian, who bv necrlic-ence 
has forfeited his title to this heavenly aid. Thus deserted 
and left alone, what can he do in the midst of worldly influ- 
ences, with a sin-craving nature pressing him to the earth, 
and the adversarv seekincr for his overthrow. Whither shall 
he flee for a refuge from those sins, that cry out within his 
prayerless soul and demand tlieir victim. And, my brethren, 
such may be your condition, if you live unconscious of your 
high calling, and neglectful of the claim of duty. If you 
will not use the means of grace, grace will not retain pos- 
session of your souls. The righteous retribution, the terrible 
chastisement of your sloth shall be, that you will be left to 
contend with your spiritual adversaries alone. And in that 
solitary, unaided conflict, while you wrestle with principali- 
ties and powers, and have no divine arm on which to lean, 
most forbidding shall be your overthrow. The church of 
God shall weep over the wound you inflict upon your Sa- 
viour, over the disgrace you bring upon his blessed cause, 
over the long dark sinful night in which you shall enshroud 
your own spirit. 

There are tv/o important inferences suggested by this sub- 
ject, with which the discourse will be closed. 

First, It is of great importance that Christians should carry 
their religion into all that they do. 

There is a general impression among us, that religion has 
very little to do with the world. We have days of the week 
and hours of the day, appropriated to sacred duties, and then 



EVILS OF XEGLECTIXG DUTY. 287 

we oro forth to our secular work as if God had no further 
claim upon us. Our religion is like a garment, which we 
leave behind us in the closet, when we go out to mingle in 
the busy walks of men. "We forget that more than any- 
where else, we need its chastening, sanctifying spirit amid 
the corruptions of active life. It is the expansive nature of 
our religion to demand and to receive the services of the 
shop and the study, as well as the closet and the church. 
There is no secular profession so high cr so low, that it may 
not be comprehended within the sphere of christian duty ; 
and that disciple who imbibes the spirit of Christ, will have a 
delightful consciousness that he is fulfilling his office by in- 
dustrious and sedulous devotion to the business of his callinop, 
by ever keeping in view his great taskmaster, by accounting 
his labors and his gains an offering to the Lord. With what 
significance is the warning of our text presented to us in all 
the work of our hands or our minds, in all our dealings with 
men, " if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door." The 
moment we let down the standard of christian action, the mo- 
ment we mingle with the world as those impelled by no high- 
er and holier purposes, the moment we perform our duties 
with no thought of their relation to God, that moment we are 
exposed to fidl. The love of gain, an unholy ambition, a ma- 
lignant selfishness that tramples under foot the rights of our 
neighbor, or some other of the passions that lie in wait for 
the defenceless citadel may come in and usurp our best affec- 
tions, and drive religion from its throne. And when we see 
a christian brother, faithful to the strictly religious duties of 
his profession, yet in his worldly life exposed to suspicion, 
and becoming a laughing-stock of the profiuie, we may learn 
whither to trace the difficulty. He has not suffered his whole 
life to be pervaded with the spirit of Jesus. He lays down 
his christian armor, at the very moment he needs it to repel 
the onset of worldliness. In the fellowship of the saints, at 
the altar of worship, in the service of the church, his offerings 



288 EVILS OF NEGLECTING DUTY. 

may be sincere and abundant, but in the great business of his 
life he is not acting for God. He is doing, but not doing 
well ; and that is the door at which sin may enter, and cor- 
rupt the unconsecrated purposes, and inflame the unguarded 
passions, and press its way through the soul, till it has poison- 
ed every pious pleasure, and turned the whole life into a ca- 
reer of wretchedness and guilt. 

Finally, Our subject teaches us, that the true remedy for 
inconsistent, wandering Christians is an immediate and active 
engagedness in all the duties of religion, '' If thou doest not 
well, sin lieth at the door," and it is equally true, if the 
monster have possession of thy soul, the only way to drive 
him from thee is by engaging in those duties of which he 
shuns the sight. Abashed by the presence of what is holy, 
and feeling ^^ how awful goodness is," he will shrink away 
and trouble thee no more. 

Do I speak to any member of this church, whose soul is 
full of darkness and doubt, whose spiritual progress has been, 
of late, like a groping upon the mountains, whose feet often 
stumble as the enemy presses hard upon him, and all the ar- 
rows pierce his flesh — Oh ! my brother, Christ sends to you 
a message of comfort and light, ^^ Go work to-day in my vine- 
yard." Christian, go forth to that work with a manly heart. 
Erect once more the long prostrate altar of devotion and sac- 
rifice within you. Put your shoulder to the wheel of Christ's 
chariot. Give your energies to the church. Labor for souls 
as one that must give account. Make your whole existence 
a pathway of burning zeal. So shall you be strong. So shall 
sin cease to have dominion over you. So shall the Master 
come and say, '' Well done, good and faithful servant," Thou 
hast been faithful unto me, and now I will put beneath thy 
feet the powers with which thou didst wrestle so sorely. Yea, 
beloved, we are more than conquerors, when Jesus lives and 
acts within us, in the energy of a devoted christian life. 



SERMON X. 



THE CULTIVATION OF THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NO 
PROOF OF PIOLINESS. 



And another of his disciples said unto him, lord, suffer me 
first to go and bury 3iy father. but jesus said unto him, 
follow 3ie ; and let the dead bury their dead . matt. 8: 21,22. 

This is one of the hard sayings of Jesus. An early and 
obscure tradition explains away its difficulties in a manner 
at once satisfactory and beautiful. The individual addressed 
in the text is supposed to be the amiable and affectionate John. 
He belonged to a family, you will remember, singularly fond 
in their attachment to each other. It was his mother who 
traveled a great distance, that she might tender to Jesus the 
request so replete with maternal ambition, ^^ Let my two 
sons sit the one on thy right hand, and the other on thy left 
in thy kingdom." The whole history of this disciple shows 
how great must have been the ardor of his social affections, 
and they no doubt at first constituted the chief obstacle in the 
way of his self-devotion to God. Now it was the custom of 
our Saviour to adapt his instructions to the besetting sins 
of those whom he addressed. To one who made wealth 
his idol, he would issue the mandate, Go and sell, and give 
to the poor ; touching each man in the most sensitive part of 
his nature, that he might the more clearly disclose the true 
state of his heart. And so he comes to the disciple men- 

25 



290 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 

tioned in our text, as to one lovinrr his earthly friends with 
an affection bordering on idohitr}', and he determines to make 
manifest the defectiveness of his character. Not that he 
vi^ould have checked the flow of filinl affection, not that he 
wished to prohibit or did prohibit the obsequies of a deceased 
parent ; but he meant by the sharpness and severity of his 
rebuke to convey more clearly the great truth, that what was 
lovely and amiable and affectionate was not to be preferred to 
what was religious, neither could it be acceptable unless 
deeply imbued with a religious spirit. 

The text naturally leads us to one of the liard points in our 
evangelical faith. It has been often said that the doctrine of 
our entire sinfulness does violence to our social sensibilities, 
that it fails to recognize those moral graces which give a 
charm and beauty to life, that it demands of the mother a 
judgment respecting a dutiful child against which all her bet- 
ter feelings revolt. It cannot be denied, that language undu- 
ly harsh and unauthorized by scripture has been sometimes 
employed upon this subject. The truth is, religion, while 
she assumes the posture of reproof, beholds in our prostrate, 
fallen nature, the ruins of much that is goodly, and she comes 
to many of our constitutional susceptibilities with a friendly 
mien, not indeed as themselves involving holiness, but as be- 
ing the avenues through which holiness may enter and take 
possession of the soul. That is a cold and unfeeling theology 
which places the social virtues on a level in all respects with 
the instincts of brutes. That is a harsh and crabbed analysis 
which can coolly resolve the finer sentiments of our nature 
into mere selfishness. Such theories can breathe only where 
they are born, in the close air of the metaphysician's study ; 
for under the clear sky, and amid the gladsome walks of life, 
they must seem more like caricatures than true portraits of 
humanity. 

I intend in subsecjuent discourses,* to show the true con- 

* Those discourses tlic author did not live to finish. The tlianks- 



THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. '291 

necticn subsisting between our relicrion and the social virtues. 
I shall endeavor to vindicate religion from the charge of hav- 
ing no fellowship with human nature, and at the same time 
to fix the reproofs of the gospel with increased severity upon 
the amiable sinner. This morning, I shall attempt to prove, 

That the cultivation of the social virtues is no proof of a 
right state of heart. 

I. It may be said in support of this proposition, that one 
who cultivates these social virtues mav be ne^lectin^ the 
most important sympathies of his moral nature. 

I think it will be readily admitted that a man cannot be 
called good, if he leaves an essential part of that moral nature 
which God lias given him to run to waste. In a certain class 
of duties, he maybe admirably correct and exemplary, but 
he is at best but half a man. Xo^v the doctrine that asserts 
our depravity, as I understand it, simply asserts a fact, that 
men are destitute of a love for God as the ruling principle of 
life, and are governed by other principles which ought to be 
restrained. It does not assume its seat, as many have sup- 
posed, at a distance fi'om human sympathies, fro^vning upon 
everv exercise of the natural man as hideous and unclean. 
It recognizes a beauty in the social virtues, but in the very 
acknowledgement of that beauty, it is the more firmly fixed 
in its condemnation of human character, because it thus 
learns, that there are susceptibilities in the heart unexercised, 
depths of affection which have not been reached. It stands 
by the bedside where affection watches and weeps, and knows 
no fatigue : it goes to the hovel where charity is dispensing 
her bounties, and wiping the tears of the mourner : it wit- 
nesses the flushed cheek when deeds of noble, self-denying, 
disinterested virtue are recited ; and it comes away from these 
scenes with the full assurance that man has an affectionate 
nature, that within his bosom there is a conscience which 

giving sermon immediately following this forms a part of the contem- 
plated course. — Ed. 



292 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 

has survived the fall, disposing him to recognize and to love 
the right, and to hate and avoid the wrong. It is a gross 
misrepresentation of our belief when we are charged with 
looking upon men as blind and base, and with groveling 
tastes that cannot appreciate what is truly excellent. No, 
my friends, if such were the conviction of men, God would 
view them as objects of pity rather than of reproof But he 
has created them with a more exalted nature, and the fault is, 
that they devote that nature to all pursuits and affections 
rather than the highest. And they who can love so well an 
earthly friend, and appreciate so readily an earthly obliga- 
tion, and discharge so faithfully an earthly duty, have no 
thought or care for the higher, the holier, the heavenly. Let 
us see how religion appeals to the very susceptibilities which 
are exercised in the course of a virtuous life, that we may 
strip the moral sinner of every refuge, and expose the odious- 
ness and the wilfulness of his depravity. 

First, What could be more in accordance with our nature 
than love for God as our Father. Filial affection is one of 
the noblest elements of our being. There is no sight which 
awakens warmer pleasure than that of a child who cherishes 
in his heart the sense of obligation to his parent, who remem- 
bers the tenderness that watched over him in infancy, who 
forgets not the hand that has guided him through the chang- 
ing scenes of life, softening the rough path for his footsteps, 
and affordinor shelter from the storm beneath the shadow of 
its own care. Beautiful indeed does filial love become, when 
it is summoned from that passive quietness into the path of 
laborious, self-denying, painful effort to repay the debt ; when 
it devotes itself assiduously to the gratification of a parent's 
will, and needs but a glance of the father's eye ere it go forth 
submissively to the ends of the earth ; when it shares its last 
farthing with aged poverty, or watches by the bedside of help- 
less decrepitude, and rejoicingly stretches out its arm for that 
second childhood to lean upon. But what shall be said of him 



THE SOCIAL VIRTrES NOT HOLY. '29o 

who exhibits tliis untiring devotion to an eartlily parent, 
while he bestows no thoucrht upon a heavenly ? Has not God 
a similar, and even a greater claim upon the affections ? Is 
there not that in the thought of his creating aiid preserving 
goodness, above all of the spiritual tenderness which he man- 
ifests for the children of his care, which is fitted to speak to 
the deepest emotions of the tilial heart, aiid send it forth in 
the pathway of childlike, and if need be. self-crucify incr obe- 
dience ? Should we not address one who could feel no such 
promptings, in the languao;e of astonishment and reproof? 
Should we not say to him in the words of a foreign preacher, 
'• Brother, a voice from God rincrs in thine ears, my child, 
why hast thou not sought nic ? Yea, from infancy up — hrst 
when thou wast sitting in thy mother's embrace, while she 
told thee the story oi the dear Redeemer : and then in thy 
boyhood, when in starry nights thou gazedst on the grandeur 
of thy Heavenly Father's mansions, and thine eyes shed drops 
of thankfulness, that amung all his millions of worlds, he for- 
got not thee, poor child; aiid then in thy youth, \s hen sin 
conflicted sorely with thee, and thou learnedst the truth, 
' He that trusteth in his own heart is a fool,* everywhere and 
all the way has thy Father's voice cried out to thee — where- 
fore seekest thou me not, my strayin^r child, tor I am still thy 
Father. Oh I ye who hang with all the fibres oi your sys- 
tem upon a creature of God, and long after that creature, 
have you ever loncred in the same wav after vour Creator ? 
Why do you not learn what is the blessedness of the faitliful 
one, when his inmost soul lies spread out in holy prayer be- 
fore God ; when the eye lingers upon the distant, deep, clear 
heaven, the fairest emblem of the boundlessness, the serenity 
and the magnificence of that love which first loved us — when 
his ear takes in no earthly sound, and only this solitary 
feeling lives in his soul, Oh I thou eternal one. Thou art.*' 

I know that acrainst this atTectionate, all-absorbing connnu- 
nion with our Heavenl)' Parent, it may be urged, that it is 

•25* 



294 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 

unnatural for the creature to aspire to intimacy with the 
Creator, that it is hard for the visible to commune with and 
to love the invisible. But, my friends, how is it with you in 
your earthly affections? Do you feel no emotions of love 
xiwakened by the virtues of those you have never seen ? Dees 
not the soul fix fondly upon many an object that may be dis- 
tant from its vision, do we not love and commune with the 
dead ? Does the filial principle depend upon something pal- 
pable and material for its nutriment and exercise ? How of- 
ten does the orphan boy deprived in infancy of his parents, 
before he had learned to discern their visage, or to feel the 
warm breath of their love, still cherish them in his heart, 
bear about their image through life, behold their eyes ever 
gazing, and their hands ever pointing out the way in which 
he should walk. And similar to this is the communion de- 
manded of the soul with God. Mysterious, yet not more 
mysterious than the dead, to each heart he speaks through 
the ten thousand voices of the outward w^orld, and from with- 
in through the clear tones of conscience, and the soft music 
of the filial feeling; and his demand is for the memory and 
the love and the duty which the child owes to his parent. 
And when he finds that these varied appeals are all slighted, 
with what justice does he cry out against the vile ingratitude, 
"** Hear oh heavens, and give ear, oh earth, — I have nourished 
and brought up children, and they have rebelled against 
me.'' 

Secondly, There is another and a beautiful class of emo- 
tions to which the character and person of Christ makes its 
appeal. He speaks to that fraternal love which we cherish 
towards those who were nurtured by the same hand, who look 
up into the face of the same parents, who share each other's 
joys and sorrows, and bear each other's burdens through life. 
There is a sense in which all mankind are our brethren, and 
it is possible for any one to become the object of this frater- 
nal feeling. If a fellow man seems to fix on me his eye with 



THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 295 

a peculiarly fond expression, I am so constituted that I al- 
most instinctively give back the affectionate glance. If he 
seems to love my society, it is my first dictate to reciprocate 
his friendship. If I find that he often sacrifices his own hap- 
piness for my good, a sense of obligation is joined to my re- 
ciprocated sympathy. If he daily com.es to me with counsels 
of wisdom and comfort, and his words are like apples of gold 
in pictures of silver ; he becomes to me as a brother. If I 
perceive that his moral graces grow lovelier as I become in- 
timate with him, and his character daily assumes a dignity 
and grandeur surpassing all that I had seen before, he is to 
me more than a brother. I press him to my heart as meet- 
ing the highest demand of my moral nature, as him whom 
my soul loveth. Now Christ comes to us in just such a way. 
He appeals to our sympathy as he first loves us. He appeals 
to our gratitude, as for our sakes he descends from the peace 
of heaven, and strucrdes and dies amid the discord of earth. 
He is as a brother ever speaking to us by the pure, refreshing 
lessons of his instructions and his life. He stands out before 
us as the personation of that moral purity and loftiness for 
which we search elsewhere in vain. Oh! if there be a char- 
acter that speaks to our condition, that has a right to demand 
the warm flow of a brother's love, it is the Redeemer of man. 
He lived and he died not merely to atone for our sins, but to 
afford us an object of fraternal affection which should harmo- 
nize with all the higher sympathies of our nature, and should 
satisfy every longing of the soul. How the heart clings to it 
as a refuge in afl^iction, and in the storm of sin and sorrow, 
listens to his cheerincr voice, and in the darkness of disease 
or old age can discern his image, when other objects of affec- 
tion have faded from the view. So felt that aged servant of 
God with whom the sun and stars of memory had been dark- 
ened, and all the daucrhters of music had been brouorht low. 
When it was attempted to recall his consciousness by the 
sound of his own name, he replied, I know not the man. 



296 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 

When mention was made of the idols of his early affections, 
they too had all been erased by the hand of age, and the old 
man strained the eyes of his memory in vain, for he could 
not recall its lost treasures. But some one spoke of the Re- 
deemer of man, and his dimmed eye lighted up with new an- 
imation, and there was eloquence in his trembling voice as 
he said, " I remember that Saviour, yes I do remember the 
Lord Jesus Christ." But for you, my friend, in the vigor of 
all your powers, with affections that you prove your ability to 
cherish and exercise for others — this precious Redeemer, 
though he comes as a brother, though he plead long with 
you, though he offer you the choicest of his treasures, yet 
you will not give him back a brother's heart. Can you 
blame us that we call such singular and astonishing cold- 
ness, depravity. 

Thirdly, There is yet another principle in man, to which 
religion makes its appeal. It is the philanthropic principle. 
It is founded on that natural sympathy which man feels for 
his fellow man, w^hich prompts him to relieve his suffering, 
and often to endure great sacrifices to benefit his condition. 
We sometimes see in an unregenerate man this natural benevo- 
lence, displayed with wonderful beauty. The feelings which 
prompt it are not to be despised, and the results of its action are 
among the choicest treasures in this world of ours. But go 
to such a man, and appeal to his benevolent sympathies in a 
religious way. Talk to him of the interests of the immortal 
soul. Try to impress upon his mind the importance of labor- 
ing for the spiritual as well as temporal good of his fellow be- 
ings. Point out to him the great evil of his example as irre- 
ligious, and hold up before him the promise of enlarging his 
sphere of usefulness and making his labors work for eternity. 
Tell him all this, and how will he treat you ? With cold- 
ness and stupidity. He is a kind neighbor, ready to pluck 
out his eye to save a fellow creature from suffering, but yet, 
when you bring to his heart this noblest object of philanthrc- 



THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 297 

py, the relief of the soul from sin and wo, it awakens no 
cordial response. Oh ! is there not something in the heart of 
man, kind and tender though it be, — is there not a perverse 
will which lifts itself up proudly and obstinately against the 
claims of religion; and though the appeal be to a suscepti- 
bility which is active in every other relation, it is in the high- 
est of all relations dull and heedless and dead. 

I think it will be obvious from these remarks, that the so- 
cial virtues, instead of proving the absence of depravity in 
the natural man, only serve to fix the charge of guilt more 
deeply upon him. They show that he is capable of feeling 
and of doing all that religion requires, but yet he refuses to 
love and to obey. Though religion makes its appeal to him 
as a man, though it speaks to him as a son, as a brother, as 
a philanthropist, though its claim is simply for a new and 
loftier and more appropriate exercise of susceptibilities which 
he possesses and knows how to direct, yet he stands aloof 
from the winning voice, and will not yield himself to the de- 
lightful service. His virtues are amiable and lovely but they 
might all subsist in an atheist's bosom, they might flourish 
in an atheist's world. There is no God in all his thoughts or 
affections or purposes. This is the depth of his depravity. 
This is the odiousness of his sin. 

The proposition of this discourse may be established by 
another train of remark. 

11. The exclusive cultivation of these social affections in- 
volves the sin of idolatry. 

The gift is permitted to draw the affections from the giver. 
God's command is that we should love him with all the heart, 
and there is a response in our moral nature to the fitness of 
this demand. The character and law of God are suited to 
attract those very affections which we expend on the crea- 
ture. Still more, they have a far higher claim upon our 
hearts than the objects which in reality engross them. Now, 
can there be idolatry more flagrant than this ? God unveils 



298 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 

his beauty and loveliness to the eye of the soul, but the soul 
replies, my affections are pre-occupied, I prefer, and I cling 
to the creature. These earthly treasures are my gods, and I 
will not have the Supreme to reign over me. Impenitent pa- 
rent, are you not conscious of your criminality in this mat- 
ter ? In neglecting your Heavenly Father, do you not erect 
in your heart an altar for your child, and do you not offer 
there the sacrifices you owe to God ? And when he sum- 
mons you to your final account, how will you extenuate the 
guilt incurred, in defiling this sanctuary of your soul, by a 
homage and a worship so mis-directed ? 

There is another light in which this exclusive, idolatrous 
devotion to the creature may be viewed. It mars that moral 
symmetry which we love to see in human culture, and cre- 
ates a monstrous disproportion in the character. Suppose a 
father were to concentrate his affections on a single child. 
On that one he should seem to dote with a fondness equalled 
only by the cold indifference with which he regarded all the 
others. On him he should lavish every kindness, and heap 
every luxury, while the rest of the famished flock should crave 
in vain for the crumbs from the favored one's table. By what 
name should we call that father ? Amiable as might seem 
to be the origin of this monomania, delightful as might be the 
sight of a fond attachment between child and parent, we 
should call this exclusive and solitary appropriation of love, a 
monstrous anomaly. Make the case a still stronger one, and 
you have a faint image of the relation sustained by the amia- 
ble sinner to God. Suppose the object of this parent's idola- 
try to be the one least worthy, in all the family, of his confi- 
dence and affection, while they whom he passes by with neg- 
lect and indifference are the patterns of all that is dutiful and 
exemplary. Indulgent parent, affectionate son, kind hearted 
brother, this is the way in which you treat God. He has 
bound himself to you by ties closer and more enduring than 
the ties of earth. He is worthy of being loved with an 



THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 299 

aitection that shall absorb your soul, and give direction to all 
subordinate loves. And yet you, infatuated in your idolatry, 
exhaust your nature in devotion to man, till there is left not 
one breathing of fondness for God. Is not this an odious, 
criminal partiality ? Is it not a hideous disproportion ? Is it 
not a depraved idolatry? 

III. These social affections may be the means of inflaming 
the natural heart with hatred acrainst God. 

Every sinner has in his heart the elements of this hatred. 
Perhaps his circumstances have not been such as to call 
them forth into a violent outbreak, and he is not fully con- 
scious of present enmity to his Maker. But God has so or- 
dered it that few persons can go through life without meet- 
ing with something to draw out this latent principle, and lay 
bare to their own view the unreconciled state of their affec- 
tions. Now there is no more sensitive spot, which God can 
touch than these very social feelings, and he wounds them 
most keenly when he comes suddenly and mysteriously, 
and tears from the very bosom of affection the object to 
which it has been clinging as its life and joy. The mother 
that goes nightly to the cradle, and watches the unconscious 
smile of her sleeping babe, and dreams that nothing can be 
so fair and so good and so secure from harm, is sometimes 
called to watch the gathering flush upon the cheek, to see 
those little hands clenched in spasmodic agony, to bend over 
the lingering sufferer in the tediousness of a long disease, till 
at length maternal care can be of no more avail, and her last 
duty is to wipe the cold sweat from the forehead that was so 
fair, and dispose the white garments for the burial. The fa- 
ther has a son, mature and manly, over whom he has watch- 
ed from infancy with unwonted fondness, on whom he has lav- 
ished every expenditure, to whom he has looked forward as 
the representative of his own family and name, and the com- 
fort of his old age. He finds his graces of mind and heart 



300 THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 

maturing with a beautiful harmony, and becrins already to 
lean on him as his strong staff and his beautiful rod. But 
suddenly a deplorable disaster prostrates his hopes. The 
blow that strikes down the darling of his pride is worse than 
death ; it dooms him to a perpetual sight of that most awful 
of spectacles, a diseased and shattered intellect. He beholds 
the glare of idiocy, where was once the sprightliness of youth, 
and the staff on which he leaned has become a broken reed. 
Now here are afflictions which may occur at any time to the 
most prosperous, and if the heart haye not been educated to 
complacency in yiew of the hidden depths of God's character, 
w^hat will it do in an hour of such deep desolation. Here are 
eyents of w^hich there is no adequate explanation, except 
that God has caused them ; and as reliorion is needed at such 
an hour, not to produce a stoical indifference, but a calm trust 
in the mysterious Proyidence, so such an hour tests the char- 
acter of the soul and proyes its w ickedness if religion be not 
there. Oh ! my friends we liye in a fearful world. Many of 
us go through life with a small share of sorrow, but there is 
not one of us that may not be wounded in the very part of our 
nature, where all our energies and affections would combine 
in the agonizing prayer, '' Good Lord spare thy people!" 
And how desolate is the heart that has no refuge to which to 
betake itself but its own bleeding sensibilities, which has no 
pious promptings which cause it to look up with a smile of 
faith to him who administers the chastening. My brethren, 
how much better is the loye to which the gospel calls us than 
the loye we find implanted in our social nature. This deyo- 
ted to objects which must fade, that fixed on objects which 
are unfading and eternal. This sustained amid a thousand 
fears and doubts which increase vyith its fondness, that built 
on a faith in the promises of God which no storms and dan- 
ger can shake. This often crushed and bleeding and deso- 
late, with its idols all torn away, with its most fine gold become 



THE SOCIAL VIRTUES NOT HOLY. 301 

dim ; that a perpetual fountain of delight, flowing more se- 
renely and beautifully amid the sorrows of earth, like the 
river of God sending its streams through the valley of death. 
And now, I appeal to you, man of the affectionate nature, 
whether you do not this day stand condemned before God. 
Do you not see the depravity of your heart more clearly ia 
those very affections which you possess and exercise for the 
world, but do not, will not devote to higher objects. Can 
you give any reason for feeling no love to God, and to 
Christ, and to souls, except that you are a sinful being? 
Have you not cultivated your moral nature with a dispropor- 
tionate, idolatrous devotion to the creature ? Are you prepar- 
ed to meet the divine administration with complacency and 
calmness, if it demands of your social nature its most costly 
sacrifice ? Are you not an enemy of God, entirely destitute 
of that governing principle of piety, which is all that can give 
elevation and holiness to your soul ? Yet to such as you, 
though she comes in the language of reproof — to such as you, 
religion appeals with sisterly tenderness. Unto men is her 
call. Unto the sons of men is her voice. And the demand 
is that you become subjects of an affection higher than earth- 
ly, and live and act and love like sons of God as well as 
sons of men. 



NOTE. 

This sermon was preaclicd at Danvers, Mass. ; never to his own 
people. 



26 



SERMON II. 



THE CONNECTION BETWEEN CHRISTIANITY AND THE 
SOCIAL AFFECTIONS.— ^A Thavksgivivg Sermox.) 



WhEV JESrS THEREFORE SAW HIS MOTHER, AN'D THE DISCIPLE STAXD- 
IVG BY AVHOM HE LOTED, HE SAITH UNTO HIS MOTHER, WOMAN', BE- 
HOLD THY SOX I THE>' SAITH HE TO THE DISCIPLE, BEHOLD THY 
MOTHER I AXD FROM THAT HOUR THAT DISCIPLE TOOK HER INTO 

HIS ow>- HOUSE. — John 19 : 26, 27. 

It is said, that the celebrated Dr. Johnson once read a 
manuscript copy of the book of Ruth to a fashionable circle 
in London. The universal exclamation of the company was, 
" where did you get that exquisite pastoral," and the thought- 
less were directed to the book, which to them had been asso- 
ciated only with gloom and dullness. It is in truth remarka- 
ble, that among a people whose domestic institutions and 
exclusive habits seemed so unfavorable to social refinement, 
the Old Testament history should abound in such delicate nar- 
ratives of the affections. The ancient classics are notoriously 
deficient in the sentiments of the fireside, but the more ancient 
literature of the bible, even in the primitive traditions of patri- 
archal life, seems to have held the family relation among its 
choicest subjects. In the whole range of eastern story, I know 
of nothing more rich than the account of Isaac's courtship. 
The witching pages of fiction have never yet surpassed the 
true narrative of Joseph and his brethren. And the sweetest 



A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 303 

refinement which modern taste has thrown around the g-rave 
is unequal to the simple pathos of old Jacob, in his dying 
request : '^ Bury me with my fathers in the cave that is in the 
field of Ephron the Hittite : There they buried Abraham and 
Sarah his wife ; There they buried Isaac and Rebekah his 
wife; and there I buried Leah." 

Yet it was left for the genius of Christianity to consummate 
the work of refinement. Indeed the whole career of Jesus 
seems to speak the language of a delightful harmony with the 
social feelings of our nature. In this respect as in all others, 
his life stands forth as a pattern for mankind to admire and 
imitate. His filial relation in the ofiice of mediator, and that 
spirit of devout and affectionate submission with which he al- 
ways addresses the Father, seem in this respect to have a 
peculiar significance. The fact that his miracles are almost 
all directed to the happiness of social life, gives the assurance 
that Christianity was designed to shed its light about the do- 
mestic fireside, and to be in turn refreshed by its gladdening 
glow. It was the sacred institution of marriage which Jesus 
honored by his first miracle. Throughout his whole career 
of benevolence, he seemed to take peculiar delight in healing 
the wounds of disappointed affection, meeting desolate widow- 
hood as she was following out to his burial the last solace of 
her life, and giving back the young man to his mother ; press- 
ing his way through the mourning minstrels around the death 
bed, and waking the pale maiden from her sleep ; healing the 
tortures that were worse than death, and restoring to health 
and reason and friendship those that had been a burden and 
a shame. Nor can we foraet his attachment to the little cir- 
cle at Bethany, where he used to take his sabbath evenincr 
meal, and whither he hurried with such fraternal sympathy 
to weep over the buried love of the sisters, and call back its 
object to life. The remarkable attachment of females to his 
person, seems to declare tlie same truth concerning his social 
character. When Chateaubriand was asked, why the women 



304 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 

of the Jewish race were so much handsomer than the men, 
why with their thick eye-brows and long eye-lashes to distin- 
guish them, they had escaped the expression of narrowness 
and malignity, which like the mark of Cain was fixed upon 
their husbands, what there was in the female, that popular 
literature should strive to adorn and beautify and exalt in 
proportion as it cast odium and contempt upon the male, — 
it was his pleasant but fanciful reply, that the reflection of 
some beautiful ray from Christianity had rested on the brow 
of the Jewesses, because they had not shared in the persecu- 
tion of its great author. The remark was founded on truth, 
for the women of Judea were the firmest friends of Jesus. It 
was they who anointed him for his burial. Not a female 
voice mingled in the shouts which followed him to Calvary, 
not a woman joined in the fearful imprecation, which fixed 
his blood upon the race. They gathered with streaming eyes 
about his cross, when the ardent and bold and manly had for- 
saken him. They w^ere earliest at his sepulchre, to engage 
in the last conflict with corruption. And now the incident 
of our text shines with conspicuous beauty in the same array 
of evidence. Hanging upon the cross — in the first freshness 
of his pain, his eye singles out one among the weeping group, 
the mother who bare him. 

" A son that never did amiss, 

That never shamed his mother's kiss, 

Nor crossed her fondest prayer ; 

Even from the tree he deigned to bow 

For her his agonized brow, 

Her his sole earthly care." 

To whom should he entrust her ? Who would be most 
faithful in this tender connection ? Who would best watch 
over her desolate old age, and stretch out his arm for her 
second childhood to lean upon ? If Peter had been here, 
within sight of the sufferer, he would have spoken out in the 



A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 305 

forwardness of his generosity, and with indiscriminate readi- 
ness have invited her to share the pittance of his poverty. 
But Peter was characterized by boldness and zeal, rather than 
a calm, constant, fireside affection. Who but the " beloved 
disciple" himself was qualified to be the adopted son of such 
a mother ? The most amiable, the most refined, the most 
competent of them all, and the only one that was constant in 
this hour of trial and suffering. " Son, look upon thy mother 
— and from that hour, that disciple took her unto his own 
house." 

In pursuing the train of thought to which we are thus led, 
on the connection between Christianity and the social af- 
fections, 

I. I remark that the social affections will almost invariably 
be found to exist in their most cultivated state, under the in- 
fluence of Christianity. 

This might be expected from that distinctive and funda- 
mental principle of our religion first clearly taught by our 
Saviour, " Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself" Chris- 
tianity teaches man to love his brother, to regard his inter- 
ests, to seek his good, and it teaches this great lesson with a 
clearness and earnestness such as is found in no other moral 
system. Now there is no principle to which society in all its 
varied operations is more indebted than this. It is the grand 
stimulus of its progress. Wherever religion has had a fair 
trial, and has lived in its purity, it has indicated its own social 
character, not only strengthening and beautifying the ties of 
nature, and gathering kindred and friends under its grateful 
shade, but widening its arms to receive all men as brethren, 
and enrich all men from the same fountains of happiness, and 
gather all men in holy union around the same great altar of 
sacrifice. 

An attentive survey of the history of the world, cannot fail 
to lead to the same result with regard to the sociid influence 
of Christianity. Go back to the remote ages of antiqui- 

26* 



306 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 

ty, before the light of our religion had dawned upon the world. 
Many a bright spot shall you find in the moral waste. Many 
a city where art has lavished her most gorgeous treasures, and 
learning has reared her proudest seats. You shall find there 
the taste of the architect, in marble columns, gracefiilly carved 
•cornices, and majestic temples that rear themselves towering 
and queenlike. You shall find there the skill of the sculptor, 
in the accurately chiseled proportions of that chief earthly 
beauty, the human form. Y ou shall enter suburban groves, 
and listen to philosophy in her most inspired lessons, and po- 
etry in her most winning strains. You shall be surrounded 
by everything outward that speaks of elevation and refine- 
ment. But when you penetrate the secrets of domestic life, 
when you look for the happiness of a pure and holy fireside, 
the light that is in them has become darkness — and '^ how 
great is that darkness ! You recur to those whited sepul- 
chres which are beautiful without, but within are full of loath- 
someness and corruption. And while you glory in the 
achievements of human taste and genius, you weep that they 
can attain so little, when unaided by the gospel of Christ. 

Follow the influence of Christianity during the ages since 
its origin, and you will find the nature of the case materially 
changed, yet leading to the same result. Now religion and 
lefinement seem to go hand in hand. All that is splendid in 
art becomes consecrated to, or is consecrated by the spirit of 
the gospel. Painting and sculpture expend their choicest 
W'orkmanship on the subjects of the bible, and the mosaic 
pavement, and the arched galleries, and the frescoed ceiling 
become vocal with the praises of God. And it seems as if 
ihe social refinement of Christianity attracted to its own ser- 
vice the genius and taste of man, as eminently harmonious 
with its spirit. Wherever it pressed its way, though among 
the hordes of barbarism, it invariably carried with it more or 
less of the blessings of cultivated life. And wherever tribes 
and nations that for a time have lived under its power, were 



A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 307 

left to relapse into their old heathenism, or gave way to the 
forced establishment of a hostile faith, it has been generally 
noticed, that barbarism and social debasement have come in, 
and stalked over the ruins of Christianity with the breath of a 
moral pestilence. 

Perhaps the most obvious influence of Christianity, is seen 
in the elevation of the female sex. In the ordinary develop- 
ments of heathenism, the condition of woman has been de- 
graded, and even in the more refined and polished regions of 
antiquity, she occupied but a secondary, and that no honora- 
ble position in society. Christianity alone has adjusted with 
propriety the relative position of the sexes, and has first raised 
love from an instinct to a sentiment. It is the spirit of wo- 
man that gives now an unwonted charm to our popular litera- 
ture, and while under a darker religious atmosphere the pre- 
vailing element may have been some vindictive passion, or 
the spell of dark and fiercely brooding destiny, the theme 
that now attracts all hearts is a refined sentiment of aflfection. 

II. This leads me to remark, that religion acknowledges 
the auxiliary moral influence of the social affections. 

It is a fact which you cannot have failed to notice, that 
Atheism levels its first blow at the family-relation. And it is 
a proof most striking and impressive, of the connection sub- 
sisting between the feelings cherished around the fireside 
of home, and those enjoined by our most holy faith. The 
ruthless hand that would blot out the thought of God, would 
turn society into a wilderness, so dark and damp that reli- 
gious promptings cannot live in its unwholesome atmosphere. 
Its first step is to tear down the domestic altar, to erase the 
hallowed associations of childhood, to banish from the spirit 
the influence of its better affections, and to shut out every 
moral restraint that lifts a warning voice from the family cir- 
cle. And when irreligion goes to assume its throne, it has to 
go over the ruins of all that is dear and lovely in the human 
bosom, amid the groans of forgotten mothers, and the tears of 



308 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 

outcast children, and its throne is in a desert of human sym- 
pathies, and the subjects of its sway are no longer men but 
brutes. 

I am aware that Christianity, from a perversion of its own 
principles, or from an undue heed to the suggestions of a 
heathenish expediency, has exposed itself to reproach in this 
matter. There was a time when religion seemed to turn its 
back upon the refined and delicate relations of social life, in- 
stead of addressing them with a voice of fellowship. What 
the church once fostered and encouraged and ever enjoined 
on the most devoted of her children, was a stern seclusion 
from what were deemed the intoxicating seductions of social 
life. But she found from bitter experience, not only what 
she had lost in refusing to take those refining influences by 
the hand, but what she had terribly gained in the immo- 
rality and corruption and disproportion of a forced celiba- 
cy. Now a days, blessed be God, religion professes little fel- 
lowship with a cloistered monkery that retires from the cheer- 
ing faces of men and women, and broods over its own gloomy 
pietism. The place where it loves to dwell is the fireside of 
home, and the sounds it loves to hear are the greeting of 
friendship and the gladsome voices of children, and the at- 
mosphere in which it flourishes and rejoices, is that which 
has been purified and consecrated by the warm breathings of 
aflfection. 

Religion may sometimes avail itself of this moral power of 
the domestic attachments, when no other influence can be of 
advantage, it may be, and has been found a most effectual 
means of grace. When the wanderer has strayed beyond the 
reach of every other influence, and the ordinary moral re- 
straints have lost their power over him, there is a pathos with 
which those finer chords of feeling may sometimes be touched, 
when the sacred burial-places of his social memory are made 
to give up their dead. There rush back upon him all the 
scenes of his childhood, with its hallowed associations, and he 



A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 309 

traces with an appalling distinctness his progress from step to 
step towards ruin. A feeling of tenderness often steals over 
him almost unconsciously, as he thinks of the crushed hopes 
and broken heart of a father, or beholds the swimming eye of 
a mother, as it fixed on him its last earthly gaze of reproof, or 
now looks down from heaven. And there may be power in 
these reminiscences, fastening themselves upon his soul, fol- 
lowing him to his haunts of sin, and giving him no peace, 
till in the brokenness of his spirit he exclaim, I will arise and 
go to my father. We instinctively acknowledge the same 
moral indebtedness, when we hear that a man of dissolute, 
hardened character has entered upon some new relation in 
social life, by invariably asking if the rough features of his 
nature are not softened, if he may not be redeemed by the sa- 
cred voice from ruin. 

I know there is a common religious feeling which seems 
to imply that our affections are a hindrance to piety. There 
are some good Christians who in the hour of bereavement are 
fond of finding fault with themselves, and think they are de- 
servedly punished for the excessive love they have lavished 
on a creature of God. But, my friends, we do wrong when 
we pretend to judge of the purposes and intention of our Ma- 
ker ; yet if our inquisitive minds will prompt us to conjecture 
of a hidden providence, let us beware how we represent it as 
frowning upon our earthly love. Let us remember that the 
demand of religion is, not that we should love our friends less, 
but our God more. Let us seek first of all, that high and ho- 
ly devotion to our Maker, and instead of checking or subdu- 
ing, it will give new strength and ardor to our social nature, 
and impart a loftiness and purity which it did not possess be- 
fore. 

in. This leads me to remark, that religion adds the 
spiritual to the natural affection. 

It enjoins a love for the soul, a tender interest in the eter- 
nal welfare of the objects of our attachment. You cannot 



310 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 

have failed to notice, what a sympathy ahiiost always subsists 
between a fondly cherished attachment and the exercise of 
prayer. If the individual has been prayerless before, and 
possesses a heart as yet unfashioned by the power of holiness, 
there is yet something mysterious in those affections which 
draws him up to God, in ardent though unacceptable worship. 
He seeks some retired place where he may go and pour out 
his soul for the welfare of those who are dear to him. His 
desires rise above earthly protection, to the ministering of an- 
gels and the overshadowing of heavenly wings. In his sep- 
arations his prayer is that of Mizpah, '' The Lord watch be- 
tween me and thee, while we are absent one from an other." 
Now this is only the uprising of natural religion in the heart ; 
it is a higher development of those affectionate sympathies 
which in themselves have no holiness ; but it shows what de- 
votional elements there are in our beincr of v»hich the reli- 
gious man may avail himself, and how naturally he who looks 
upon the friends of his heart as immortal beings, may be 
stimulated to labor and pray for their salvation. God has not 
left such a sphere of christian activity without the seal of his 
approval. The affection that fixes its eye upon some be- 
loved wanderer, and watches over his erring footsteps, prays 
with a faith that cannot fail, and beckons and beseeches with 
a love that knows no end ; — such an affection shall not lose 
its reward. It may go forth to its work with tears, but it 
shall return amid the shouting of summer fruits. 

Every religious family is bound to its members by just such 
religious ties, and bears within itself the elements of this 
spiritual influence. Oh ! if there be a spot on earth, on which 
God looks down with pleasure it is the altar of family prayer. 
Precious incense is that which goes up, each morning and 
each evening, from the sanctuary of affectionate hearts. 
Humble may be the scene of gathering, and lowly the voice 
of petition, but there is a sacred light encircling the group, 
and a solemn eloquence investing these words of common 



A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 311 

penitence and of common gratitude — the few kneeling to- 
gether with hearts that throb with one affection for each 
other, and one desire towards God. Changes may come over 
that family-circle. They may be changes from joy to sorrow, 
or from sorrow to joy. Poverty may strip the old mansion 
of its costly adornments, or fortune may turn the cottage into 
a palace, and the smiling fac^s that once beamed among them 
may give place to the memory of the absent and dead ; but 
that ancient bible, and those words of prayer, and the spot 
where old and young used to kneel together, shall all linger 
in the mind, gathering richness and beauty in the lapse of 
years, and giving to the eye of age a picture which shall never 
lose its greenness or its grace. 

IV. I remark, that religion teaches us to cherish our earth- 
ly attachments in the hope that they will be perpetuated in 
heaven. 

It is the chief glory of Christianity, that it brings to light 
life and immortality beyond the grave. It is the chief power 
of religion that it presses the soul onward and upward to feed 
upon this great hope. It teaches how unsubstantial and 
transitory are earthly idols, and it fixes the eye on objects 
that are heavenly and enduring. When the fibres of the 
soul are woven around the beings who reciprocate its love, 
its prompting is that they be nurtured for a fairer soil beyond 
the tomb. Thither we may look amid the endearments of 
earth, and hope for a higher and more blissful consumma- 
tion in heaven. 

Here is the crowning beauty of religion, in the social char- 
acter. The thought of eternity imparts a grandeur and a depth 
to the affections in their ordinary exercise. In the trials and 
anxieties of the domestic circle, the thought of heaven will 
communicate serenity and calmness, and drown each gloomy 
forebodincr. And in those dark hours, when the hearth be- 
comes desolate, and the mourners go about the streets, it is 
that blessed whisper of the gospel, ^* we shall go to them, but 



312 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 

they shall not return to us," which assuages the bitterness 
of grief, and confirms the shattered faith, and inspires the 
heart with new and holy purposes. 

It is in its connection with the influence and memory of 
the dead, that religion accomplishes what nothing else can 
achieve. I know there is a philosophy at such an hour which 
whispers its cold lessons to the bereaved, but they are truths 
which prop up, but cannot warm the sinking spirit. They 
have no power to draw life from the bitter herb. They do 
but strive to stay the first gush of agony, and when the wounds 
are healed up, they leave the spirit forgetful of the high moral 
lessons it has received, and with no purification from the fire 
through which it has been called to pass. The precept in- 
culcated by this superficial sentiment alism is, *' Look not 
mournfully on the past," rather than, '^ Look joyfully upon 
the future and be strong in hope of heaven." But not so is 
it with religion. It speaks to us from the vacant chair by 
the fireside, and the departed one seems again to occupy it, 
and we are all together once more around our old familiar 
hearth. It speaks to us in the well remembered scenes which 
we used to traverse not alone, and our old companions seem 
once more to be walking with us, and cheering us by their 
counsel. It speaks to us from their silent dwelling in the 
churchyard ; and its voice proclaims that this is not the home 
of the dead, that they live — live in our hearts, live in our lives, 
live in heaven. Yea, my brethren, through life we may be 
conscious of the delightful communion. We know that they 
live and love. Ever they hover about our pathway. Ever 
they linger about the scenes of home, and touch as with angel- 
wing the altars at which they used to bow. And the lan- 
guage in which they ever address us, is that of solemn coun- 
sel to live above the world, to breathe on earth more of the 
atmosphere of heaven, consecrated as it is by the presence of 
God and the blessed ones who die in Him, that we may come 
home, there to live and to love also. And, my friends, is not 



A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 31 



o 



that religion worthy of being adopted into our families, and 
enshrined in our hearts, and acknowledcred in each scene 
of joyous festivity, which borrows such a lustre from the fire- 
side, and gives back in return its own most blessed sunshine ; 
— a religion which can draw such happiness and instruction 
from the very sorrows of earth, which can make the dead 
still live in our circles with the blessedness of a new life, 
which can call us all together at last among the families of 
the blessed, to an eternal thanksgiving in the heavens. 

I have thought, my friends, that no sentiments could be 
more appropriate than these upon this return of our annual 
festival. Our fathers were men who looked to the good of 
posterity in the institutions they established. They had se- 
cluded themselves from the blessings of their native fireside, 
not that they loved home less, but that they loved liberty 
more. They brought their household gods with them across 
the ocean, though they left the old altars behind. They wish- 
ed to render attractive this new home in the wilderness, and 
they gathered about it the lights of christian influence. A 
day set apart for gratitude to God could not fail to bring the 
happy family together, to renew their vows to one another 
while they paid united tribute to their common Father. It 
is fit that the day should be still hallowed as it is by all the 
precious associations of home, that it should bring back the 
son to his mother, the daughter-in-law to her mother-in-law -; 
that it should gather old and young around the table of plenty 
and the altar of thanksgiving. Let us come, my friends, 
thanking God that we are Christians by birth, and deriving 
an impulse from these scenes, that we may become Christians 
in heart. Let us consecrate these hours to remembrances of 
the absent, and set up the vacant chair to the table for the 
distant ones who remember us this day in their prayers. If 
to some of us these associations are crowded with sorrow, 
and we cast back our thoughts to the light-hearted and joy- 
ous who were the life and sunshine of the day, but whose 

27 



314 A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 

light has been put out forever ; let us mingle these sacred 
memories with our joys. Let the forms of the past come in 
to cast their chastening shadow over our present pleasures. 
Let us look away to the " fair flow^ers of our garland as they 
bloom yonder lovelier and forever. '' 

" He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, 

At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
But what fair field or grove he sings in now, 

That is to him unknown. 

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams 

Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 

And into glory peep. 

Dear beauteous death ! the jewel of the just 1 

Shining nowhere but in the dark, 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 

Could man outlook that mark 1" 



NOTE. 

The preceding discourse furnishes as good an illustration as can be 
given of Mr. Homer's social and domestic character. A clergyman 
who heard the sermon preached, and who associated its breathing 
words with what he well knew to be the spirit of its author, wrote the 
following account of the first and the only Thanksgiving service 
which Mr. Homer performed. " The sermon and indeed the entire 
service was peculiar and very impressive. His hymns were well se- 
lected. His prayer contained a recognition of the hand of God in 
planting the American colonies, in guarding and in guiding them amid 
difficulties and dangers ; also a full expression of thanks for present 
blessings. Several passages from the eightieth Psalm were introduced 
into the prayer with singular appropriateness. For his scripture, he 
read the entire book of Ruth, and with such spirit as to render it alto- 
gether new and charming. His sermon, though long, was delivered 



A THANKSGIVING SERMON. 315 

in his happiest style, and held the attention of the congregation to 
the last word. The whole effect was most delicrhtful. Strancrers 
present pronounced it an exquisite specimen of sermonizing. I think 
that the service, taken as a whole, was one of the most beautifully 
impressive which I ever attended. In contrasting it with my own 
performances, I felt strongly inclined to give up the clerical profes- 
sion." — One of Mr. Homer's most intelligent parishioners was asked 
whether the reading of the whole book of Ruth, before the Thanks- 
giving sermon, did not prove wearisome to the audience. " It was 
the most interesting part of the service," was the reply. " Mr. 
Homer looked as if he could not help reading the whole, and 
the four chapters seemed only too short," The sermon was conclu- 
ded with the two final stanzas of Henry Vaughan's ' Psalm of Death.' 
The Editor has taken the liberty to add a third stanza from the same 
exquisite poem. The reasons for the addition will be obvious to the 
critical reader. The sermon was never preached except at South 
Berwick, Nov. 26, 1S40. 



SERMON XII. 



THE EXTENT AND BROADNESS OF THE DIVINE LAW. 



1 HAVE SEEN AN END OF ALL PERFECTION: BUT THY COMMANDMENT 
IS EXCEEDING BROAD. PsallTl 119: 26. 

The Psalmist employs the word law and its synonymes in 
a most extended sense. In the text he designs to contrast 
the whole religious system with the vanities of life. He had 
seen an end to all earthly perfection ; as a quaint divine ex- 
presses it — ^^ Goliath the strongest overcome, Asahel the swift- 
est overtaken, Ahithopel the wisest befooled, Absalom the 
fairest deformed ;" and now with delight he turns to the ful- 
ness of religion, — its doctrines so complete, its requirements 
so ample, its promises so sure, its rewards so glorious. Thy 
commandment, he exclaims with his admiring eye on the 
vast and multiplied blessings of God's word, thy command- 
ment is exceeding broad. 

Included, and perhaps prominent in the mind of the writer, 
was the idea which lies upon the face of the text, the supe- 
riority of divine to human law. In his official career as a 
statesman and a monarch, he had seen an end to all perfec- 
tion here. The code of Moses divinely inspired as it was, 
and in its ampleness and wisdom calling for the admiration 
of every child of Israel, was yet subjected to all the limits and 
deficiencies of what was human and earthly. In what strik- 



EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 317 

ing contrast to the tables of stone with all their accurate, mi- 
nute and magnificent detail, did the law of God stand forth 
in its simple majesty, and its comprehensiveness. Let us 
draw out this contrast in the present discourse, and consider 
the superior extent of the divine law, and its freedom from 
those limits which check the operation of human ordinances. 

It is not my design in the present discourse to detract from 
the honor and respect we all owe to those outward forms of 
law under which we live. They secure our peace and hap- 
piness, and they merit our gratitude. They are an echo of 
the divine law, a shadowing forth through earthly symbols of 
principles which are eternal, and they deserve our homage 
and veneration. But exposed as they are to the limits and 
imperfections of everything earthly and human, though as 
perfect as they could be, we should bear in mind that they 
are but an echo and a shadow. We should look away often, 
to the great archetype in that divine and eternal law, of which 
it has been so beautifully said, that '' her seat is the bosom 
of God, her voice the harmony of the world ; all things in 
heaven and earth do her homage, the very least as feeling 
her care, and the greatest as not exempt from her power, 
though each in different form and manner, yet all with uni- 
form consent admiring her as the mother of their peace and 
joy." To exalt this great original, rather than to depreciate 
the imperfect copy, is my present design. 

I. I remark that the superior broadness of the divine law is 
manifest, from the fact that it is designed and fitted for the 
whole universe of moral beinors. *' The commandment is ex- 
ceeding broad ;" because it stretches out its arms to gather 
the moral universe under its sway. Its voice reaches every 
remote corner of space where spirit dwells, and its power is 
felt and acknowledged as far as its voice is heard. 

First, It can reach all moral beings. 

Human law of course issues its mandates for the earth 
alone, and on men alone can it execute its penalties. It can- 

27* 



318 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 

not ascend into heaven and bid the angels obey. It cannot 
go down into hell, and command allegiance from the rebel 
host. It cannot travel through space, and hold up its glit- 
tering sceptre over the myriads of intelligences that people the 
illimitable domain. A proud monarch once took his seat up- 
on the ocean shore, and bade the advancing tide go back, but 
the billows heeded not : they only rolled on wave after wave, 
till in mockery they kissed the monarch's feet. And if the 
dumb elements of nature refuse obedience to an earthly 
mandate, how much more shall the spirits of another sphere 
assert their independence of such a sway. To one accus- 
tomed to contemplate himself and the earth where he dwells, 
as but a speck in God's moral creation, how inferior appears 
the jurisdiction of the mightiest empire which terminates 
with men and with earth, to the extended sway of that govern- 
ment which rules over all It is acknowledged above and 
below. It is the law of heaven and of hell. It pervades all 
existence. Jehovah himself, I say it with reverence, is sub- 
ject to its standard and its dictates. And wherever in the 
wide universe of God conscience sits, the law is with her, 
inseparable from her very being, speaking in her voice, beam- 
ing in her smile, smiting with her scorpion sting. 

But it is not my purpose in this part of the discourse, to 
push the contrast into such remote extremes, or to insist 
upon the obvious and admitted extension of the divine law 
into other spheres than our own. I wish to bring the subject 
to a more immediate and practical bearing upon ourselves, and 
to confine the comparison to the operation of law among hu- 
man beings. The contrast will be yet more striking, if we con- 
sider how much wider is the divine law in its influence over 
men. It is designed for all men. It can reach ail men. It 
not only claims to be superior in the universality of its juris- 
diction, but it meets human law in its own narrow sphere, the 
sphere for which it has been adjusted and modeled, and it 
claims the victory there. 



EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 319 

I ask, where is there a human statute which extends over 
all the earth, which reaches with its command and its penalty 
the subjects of all dynasties, which protects and punishes the 
savage in the wilderness, while it exerts its power over you 
and me ? The constitution of things forbids the possibility of 
such a wide reachinor law. I am not findino- fault with the 
arrangements of government, or the divisions of society. I 
do not say that it would be better on the whole, if all man- 
kind could be gathered into one family, or that justice would 
be as well administered if there was but one legal code ; I 
only wish to call your attention to the extreme narrowness of 
the sphere in which any law can operate. The natural 
boundaries which separate states, the diversities in opinion 
and language, the distances which human speed and sagacity 
cannot easily overcome, all put a limit to the extent of gov- 
ernment, and require that human law, however uniform its 
principles, be restricted in its influence. The man who steps 
across the little stream that skirts our own village, is beyond 
the eye of the executive under whose peculiar and immediate 
authority we live, and the man who goes a little farther, and 
crosses another boundary almost as narrow, removes himself 
from the power and the protection of that great national con- 
stitution which is our boast and glory. Let the relations 
between the separate governments be as intimate and as 
friendly as they may, and let law protect herself as she does 
among us, by the officer of public justice standing across the 
boundary with the seals of both states in his right hand, there 
always have been, and there always must be incident to these 
limits of dominion, evasions of rectitude, and escapes from 
penalty. Compare with this the wide extent of the divine 
law, obligatory as it is upon men of every clime and tongue, 
covering the remotest dwellers on the face of the earth under 
the same broad shield of protection, issuing its mandates 
alike to the civilized and the barbarous, to the proud citizen 
of a free government, and the cringing slave under a despot's 



320 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 

chain — the same everywhere and to all in its present influ- 
ence, and able to gather all in the day of reckoning, from 
every kindred and tribe and people under heaven, around the 
same tribunal of judgment. 

But let us bring the question to a still closer issue. We 
have tested the extent of human law in its reference to man- 
kind at large, let us now examine it in its power over the 
few who are included within its admitted and narrow juris- 
diction. We shall find even here, that the divine law reaches 
farther than the ordinance of man ; for who can pretend that 
every criminal receives at the hand of the law under whose 
authority he lives, the deserts of justice? How many a 
shrewd transgressor can sin under the very eye of the gov- 
ernment, without detection. How many a detected criminal 
can take the wings of the morning and fly to the uttermost 
parts of the sea, where the eagle-eye of the police, and the 
sentence of the court cannot follow him. If in the providence 
of God it almost always happens, that crime meets with 
its reward even in this life, it is not so much from the vigi- 
lance of man, as from that sense of divine law which agitates 
the guilty, which rouses conscience from its long slumber, 
which makes the criminal become his own betrayer. Under 
the eye of God, there can be no trickery to deceive, no mist 
to blind, no speed to run away from its searching gaze. For 
that law we bear about within us. It is inseparable from our 
being. It follows us wherever we go. The more we try 
to look away from that living tablet of the heart, the more 
its characters blaze out with flames of indignation, and while 
we run away from its drawn sword, it smites us to the earth. 

Whether we look then at the universe of being, at the 
world of mankind, or at the jurisdiction of an earthly court, 
we find that the divine law is superior, because it reaches so 
far that not a solitary being eludes its sway. 

Secondly, I notice as an indication of the fitness of the di- 
vine for a universal law — to comprehend all beings, especially 



EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 321 

all men under its sway — the circumstance that it is intelligi- 
ble to all. 

The mysteries of human law are in the hands of a favored 
few. It requires years of patient study to become familiar 
with them, and the best labors of a long life to master them 
thoroughly. Even then, there is scarcely a nice question 
that shall be started which will not send the jurist to his li- 
brary, to consult his standard authorities, or look over his file 
of precedents. The court are often disagreed as to the pre- 
cise force and tenor of the books, and the lanofuacre of the 
statutes is often so involved in technical intricacies and cir- 
cumlocutions, that the mass of the people can be acquainted 
with them only through their learned interpreters. Every 
attempt to correct these deficiencies is deserving of praise, 
and will not be without great benefit to the state ; but let the 
digest be as lucid and accessible as it may, how large a pro- 
portion of those who see it and read it, are ignorant of the 
principles on which it is founded, how many individuals never 
see it at all. The changes too, to which the wisdom of our leg- 
islators is constantly exposing the statute book, cannot but in- 
troduce confusion and embarrassment into the popular study 
of the law, so that legal science exalted as may be its ori- 
gin, and ennobling as may be its principles, must be consid- 
ered too deep and obscure and variable to be intelligible to 
the mass of our citizens. 

But how different the law of God ! So simple — comprehend- 
ed as it is in those few short words. Love to God and love to 
man. So clear — clothed as it is in no misty and redundant 
verbiacre, but in the forcible characters of conscience. So 
unchangeable in form and spirit — that heaven and earth may 
pass away before one jot or tittle of that law shall vary. 
Throughout the universe of God there is nt)t a solitary individ- 
ual, however low his condition, however impoverished his 
attainments, that can say with truth, this great law of eternal 
rectitude I have never known ; for every human being bears 



322 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 

within his own soul a record plain and legible of the heaven- 
ly mandate, and if he pervert its meaning or disregard its 
injunction, it is his own fault. 

It is a familiar principle of human jurisprudence, that ig- 
norance of the law can excuse no one. And although there 
may be solitary cases where the operation of this rule may not 
be strictly equitable, its uniformity no doubt fortifies the state 
against much falsehood and evasion. But the divine law 
goes further. It holds not only that ignorance is no excuse 
for the criminal, but that it rather aggravates his guilt. When 
he dares to plead ignorance of what might have been so in- 
telligible, he accuses himself of having blotted out the hand- 
writing of conscience, of having shut his eyes to the light, of 
having voluntarily chosen darkness and blindness — and his 
doom must be that of one who has committed suicide upon 
his moral nature, and trampled under foot the precious re- 
cord which the Creator had inscribed upon his heart. 

Thirdly, I remark in proof of the universality of the di- 
vine law, in its application to individuals, that it commends 
itself to all. 

There are many human laws which we are forced to obey, 
against which we are prone to murmur. Our own country has 
been recently the scene of an almost unprecedented excite- 
ment, in consequence of the hostility of a part of the commu- 
nity to certain acts of the government, which were becoming 
the supreme law of the land. The most fearful revolutions 
which the world has ever witnessed, have been the result of 
differences of opinion with regard to law. The views of men 
vary with their circumstances. And as '^ to err is human," 
it would not be strange if many a code imposed upon its sub- 
jects burdens greater than they could bear. 

But of the divine law we must acknowledge that it is al- 
ways right. In every man's bosom it recognizes a friend 
who will plead long and faithfully for its vindication ; and he 
who rises up against it in rebellion, rises up against his own 



EXTENT OF THE DEVIXE LAW. 323 

soul. It never utters its voice of command, where there is 
not a consciousness of ability to obey. It is never slighted, 
without a pang of remorse to prove that its requirements 
were due. Even its terrors, however much we deceive our- 
selves for a time, its terrors, I say, are in harmony with the 
very elements of our being ; and those who suffer under its 
eternal frown feel constrained to go down to perdition with- 
out a murmur at their doom, and to admire forever the jus- 
tice and awful goodness that condemn them. 

We see then that the divine law in its application to indi- 
viduals, has a wider and broader field than laws of men. It 
comprehends the whole human race beneath its sway. There 
is not one who fails to acknowledore its rectitude. There is 
not one who can mistake its clear directions. There is not 
one who can withdraw from its gaze or its power. ^ly hear- 
er, thou art a subject of that law. Amid the millions through- 
out the universe for whom it is administered, it singles out 
thee from the mass ; and for thee its vicrilance is as sear chin or 
and its penalty as sure, as if thou Vvcrt the only being in all 
God's creation, as if for thee alone the moral code was de- 
vised, and for thee alone the blazing summit gave forth its 
voice of terror, and for thee alone the smoke of their torment 
ascend eth up forever and ever. 

II. I proceed to notice as another proof of the superior 
broadness of the divine law, that it extends to all moral ac- 
tions. 

It not only includes all moral beings under its sway, but 
it takes cognizance of every act however trivial and minute. 
Not the most secret conduct of the most secluded individual 
escapes its gaze or its award. 

Let us notice the different classes of actions which elude 
the vigilance of human law, that we may see the superiority 
of the divine government in ferreting out every species of 
transorression. 

There is a large class of delinquencies within its ad- 



324 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 

mitted cognizance, which, as we have already observed, the 
law of man can never reach. It cannot punish crime unless 
its commission be supported by ample testimony — and how 
many an action has it summoned to the bar of justice, where 
an ingenious defence has confused the evidences of guilt, or 
contrived a thousand subterfuges from the strict enforcement 
of the penalty. It is wise in our judicatures, that they lean 
on the side of mercy ; but no doubt in so doing they leave the 
wrong unpunished, as often as they extricate the unfortunate 
from embarrassment. How much superior is the execution of 
that divine law, which needs no testimony to aid its supervi- 
sion of human conduct, but can discern everything by the in- 
fallible insight of the great lawgiver himself And let the man 
perform his deed in the darkness of night, with no witnesses, 
not even the birds of the air, to the foul transaction ; let him 
bury every trace of his crime so deep in the earth that a hu- 
man eye cannot penetrate to it ; let him put a seal upon his lips, 
or retire alone to the wilderness, lest his conscious guilt speak 
out the story of his shame — the eye of the divine law has seen 
that crime, and the book of remembrance has recorded it, and 
the day of judgment shall reveal it upon the housetop, with 
a distinctness equalled only by the vivid consciousness of 
the criminal. 

It is another peculiarity of human law, with regard to the 
actions within its cognizance, that it must stop with the out- 
ward development. It can discern only the external act, 
without judging of the intents and purposes of the heart. I 
know there are many cases where a malicious purpose is in- 
cluded in the indictment, and must be shown to exist before 
the accused person can be found guilty. But I suppose that 
in reality this is only a legal fiction, in faint and distant imi- 
tation of the divine law, which makes the bad motive the 
whole crime. Strictly speaking, our courts never judge or 
condemn anything but the outward act. This is evident, be- 
cause the secretly cherished purpose is never noticed, until 



EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. o25 

something is said or done or attempted to be done : and 
whenever the malicious purpose is included in the indict- 
ment, the crime is not so much inferred from the malice, as 
the malice from the nature and circumstances of the crime. 
The law, if it ever notices the intention or motive, goes from 
without inward, and from sometliing the man has done, judges 
what must have been his motive. Now in the divine law 
the process is just the reverse, from within outward. It no- 
tices the man's motive lirst of all ; and from the character of 
the motive, it determines the character of what he has done. 
And how much more accurate must be the decisions, and 
how much more complete the judgments of that law, which 
is not forced by the limits of its knowledge to reason perpetu- 
ally in a circle — inferring the malice from the crime and the 
crime back again from the malice — but which takes the nat- 
ural course, goes up at once to the fountain-head, the thoughts 
and purposes of the heart, and knows from them what must 
be the issues in life and conduct. 

Bat there are many external acts which human law can- 
not reach with propriety, as it does not pretend to do. It 
cannot enter the domestic circle, and correct the private ills 
of the family group. It cannot check or soften the acerbi- 
ties of temper. It cannot push down the ebullitions of envy 
or hatred or jealousy. It cannot discern the petty tricks of 
trade. It cannot hale a man to justice because he is pursu- 
ing the ends of a grasping ambition, or hoarding the trea- 
sures of a selfish avarice, or making profit on tlie ruin of 
his neiglibor's soul. It cannot punish the thousand omissions 
of duty, the neglect of the sanctuary and the bible, and the 
steeled heart against the cry of the poor. These and similar 
things are wisely and justly beyond the province of human 
law ; and it ought not to intrude its visage too far into the cham- 
bers of conscience where God sits on the judgment seat. 
But oh! thou correct and exemplary citizen, thou who hast 
kept every law in the statute-book from thy youth up, thou 

28 



326 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 

who boastest thyself that thou hast never stood at the crimi- 
nal's bar, or turned pale at the sheriff's mittimus, or shivered 
in the damp walls of a jail, think not, most perfect man, think 
not that it shall be so with thee at the divine assize. Terri- 
ble must be the reckoning, when the weak, whom thy slan- 
derous or angry tongue has wounded, when the ruined whom 
thy secret dishonesty has wronged, when the destitute, whose 
wants thou hast slighted, all rise up as witnesses that thou 
hast violated the great law of love, that thou hast wronged 
thy neighbor, that thou hast hated thine own mother's son. 

But it is the grand superiority of the divine law in this re- 
spect, that its chief cognizance is of the spiritual man, of the 
affections of the heart, with which human ordinances from 
their very nature can have nothing to do. Where the law of 
man lifts its salutary warning, and proclaims thou shalt not 
do the hurtful or the impure or the mean thing, the law of 
God goes further and says, thou shalt not cherish the incipi- 
ent feeling which prompts to the act, thou shalt not gaze 
with the eye of longing on the polluted object. The law of 
God goes further still, and where it would be profane and 
blasphemous for the edict of man to enter, into the inner sanc- 
tuary, the very holy of holies of the human bosom, it dis- 
cerns the state of the relictions affections, the relation of the 
heart towards God. If it finds rebellion there, if it finds posi- 
tive hatred, or if it finds only a passive disobedience to the 
great command, thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy 
soul, it will not deign to look further — let the man be as good 
as he may be in his own and in other's esteem ; let him be 
unfaltering in his loyalty to government and to law, and even 
perfect in his citizenship ; let him be amiable in the private 
and benevolent in the public walks of life — if the love of God 
be absent from the soul, it esteems all these virtues, not as 
worthless, but, so far as religion is concerned, as nothing bet- 
ter than the poisoned streams from a poisoned fountain. As 
it summons the spiritual criminal to the bar, it proclaims as 



EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 327 

the great and fearful principle on which the trial must pro- 
ceed — Whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend 
in one point is guilty of all. 

III. I notice as the last evidence of the superior broadness 
of the divine law, that it extends throuo-h all duration. 

Time is one of the chief limits to the operation of a hu- 
man code. The reaper in his flight cuts down the tares as 
well as the wheat, and the vices of men with their virtues 
are lost in the lapse of years. The memory of a crime long 
ago committed is faded and indistinct, and the evidences may 
be so confused in the distance, that the guilty will escape his 
doom. Human law too cannot reach beyond the present life. 
The capital offender may anticipate the sword of justice, by 
laying violent hands upon himself, and his lifeless frame hang- 
ing suspended from the grate of his cell, or dashed against 
its granite walls, becomes a ghastly mockery of the court, and 
seems to proclaim in sepulchral tones, I am beyond your 
power now. The waiting executioner cannot call back the 
suspended animation, and the sheriff must knock in vain at 
the door of the dead. 

But not so the divine law. It is not subject to the muta- 
tions of time. Co-existent with the Deity who is its great ad- 
ministrator, its broad sweep is from eternity, into eternity, 
through eternity. The same yesterday, to-day, and forever, 
it brings up the crime of a century's growth, as if it were but 
a moment old. Its action like the being of God is an eter- 
nal now ; and upon the guilty it has its eye, ever with the 
same fixed gaze. lie may hurry away into forgetfuliiess of 
himself and all around him, but the eye is there still. He 
may rush heedless into eternity, but the same eye meets him 
in the world of spirits, lighted up with new fires, which wake 
the memories of his old guilt from their long oblivion, and 
stir up the remorseful consciousness of present alienation 
from good. Here is the chief extent of the divine law, that 
its obligations and its penalties are both eternal. Sometimes 



328 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 

in this life it will begin the work of retribution, and kindle the 
flames of conscience with all the terrors of a present and liv- 
ing hell ; but its grand sphere is in eternity, where the spirit 
is left bare to its searching gaze, to the recollection of past 
and the consciousness of present guilt, compelled to hear the 
constant mandate to do right, yet as often of its own free, evil 
nature drawing back to do wrong, and withering under that 
same eye which blazes on forever, and ever, and ever. This 
is the awful power of law when for the last time it seals up 
the book of account, and all its kind efforts to retrieve the 
criminal have proved unavailing, and obstinately and wilfully 
he enters the prison door, and invites the avenging stroke. 
Oh ! Lord how long ? may be his distressing interrogatory 
when ages on ages have rolled over his imprisoned spirit, till 
his own history looks like an eternal past. Oh 1 Lord, how 
long ? but the answer that comes from the judgment-seat, 
proclaims that the arm of the law is as broad as infinite dura- 
tion, and its punishment must be as deathless as conscience 
and the soul. 

My friends, it becomes us to tremble at such a law as this. 
^ Our own consciences and the word of God proclaim that the 
divine law is such, and that we are the subjects of it. It is a 
law that pervades the universe, and it fixes its eye and stretch- 
es out its arm over you and over me. It is a law that is all- 
penetrating, and it treasures up our secret as well as our out- 
breaking sins ; it sits by our side in the sanctuary, and it fol- 
lows us home to the fireside and the closet, and whether we 
sin with the hand or the tongue, or the mind, it notes all 
down alike. It is a law that is eternal — in old acre, it binds 
us as it did in youth — in the grave corruption cannot stay its 
power — never, never, never, shall we cease to hear its thril- 
ling tones. It is a law, whose worm, I speak the language of 
inspiration, whose worm if it be once let in upon the soul 
can never die, whose flame if it be once kindled, burns on 
and on, forever. Oh ! my friends, from a law like this, so 



EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 3*29 

personal, so searching, so lasting, so terrible, which way shall 
we flee ? Within is the despair of conscious guilt. Around, 
which way soever we turn, is that keen eye and that iron 
sceptre and that blazing scroll. But above them all, blessed 
be God for that sight, above them all is the cross of Christ, 
and on its front, we trace in living characters — ^' not to de- 
stroy but to fulfil" — " Look unto me and be ye saved all the 
ends of the earth.'' 



NOTE. 

A member of the Piscataqua Association lias given the subjoined 
account of the preceding discourse. — "It was my lot to hear but one 
of Mr. Homer's sermons. The text vras, Thy commandment is ex- 
ceeding broad. It was preached at Kingston, at a meeting of our asso- 
ciation of ministers. The effect on a plain and rather small audience 
was sufficient to prove a high testimonial to his power. The atten- 
tion of the hearers was sustained fully, and at times his vivid and for- 
cible illustrations excited a thrill of solemn feeling. He succeeded, I 
think, in impressing deeply on the minds of all, the amazing majesty 
ofthe divine law, and the alarming condition of every impenitent man. 
As far as I remember now, the sermon did not close with a very full 
reference to a method of salvation. I remarked to him at the time, 
that it was a pity he had not blended with his successful and truly 
alarming appeals some closing suggestions to direct the mind to the 
Saviour. It seemed to me at the time that he was unconscious how 
skillfully and successfully he had harrowed up the minds of his hear- 
ers with pointed truth, and that this might account for the absence of a 
more evangelical appeal at the close ; he did not seem to know how 
necessary his sermon rendered a reference to Christ. His manner 
and style were both intensely earnest ; not violent or spasmodic and 
yet so energetic as to present a striking contrast with his slender form.'' 

In reference to the criticism wliich this judicious writer has made 
upon the conclusion of Mr. Homer's sermon, it may be remarked, 
that the error specified, if it be an error, was one of principle, rather 
than anoversiorht in practice. Singleness of view, unity of imj)ression, 

23* 



330 EXTENT OF THE DIVINE LAW. 

was an especial aim of Mr. Homer in his sermons, and he disliked to 
admit into his peroration any thought or sentiment which varied, even 
in its shading, from the spirit and genius of his discussion. He of- 
ten spoke against the practice of closing a sermon designed for Chris- 
tians, with an exhortation to sinners, and rice versa. He was fearful 
of weakening one impression by an attempt to make another, and if 
he succeeded in leaving a stamp upon the mind by any single appeal, 
he chose not to efface it by adding a new stamp, however excellent in 
itself 

This sermon was preached to his own people at South Berwick, 
Dec. 6, 1840; at the Baptist church in South Berwick; at Kingston; 
Great Falls; and Exeter, X. H. 



SERMON XIII. 



THE CHARACTER AND THE REWARD OF ENOCH. 



And ENOCH walked with god ; and he was not, for god took him. 

Gen. 5 : 24. 

This precious relic of antediluvian history occurs in the 
midst of one of those genealogical tables so frequent in Jew- 
ish annals, and so useful in preserving our Saviour's line- 
age. It is remarkable for several reasons. It is the only 
record of religious character in the regular succession of the 
patriarchs down to the time of Noah. Enoch was the sev- 
enth from Adam. Of his great progenitor, subsequently to 
the fall, our account is extremely limited, presenting only the 
enumeration of his children and his years. Of the other pa- 
triarchs it is simply recorded that they lived, and that they 
died. Of Enoch, however, the historian attempts to draw a 
more full and accurate portrait. This portrait is interesting 
as it presents the spectacle of a good man, in the midst of a 
corrupt and degenerate age. The sacred history informs 
us, that the depravity of man was now fearfully increasing 
throughout the earth. The prevalent neglect of public wor- 
ship among the descendants of Cain, the pride that was en- 
gendered in their hearts by the skill of such artificers as Ju- 
bal and Tubal, and by the physical strength of the giants in 
those days, and more than all the great age to which they 



33'2 ENOCH'S CHARACTER AXD REWARD. 

lived, putting far off the thought of death, and giving to indi- 
vidual sin a gigantic growth, were among the circumstances 
which contributed to this alarming spread of corruption. But 
amid them all, how delightful the thought, that there was 
one, who *^ faithful found amonor the faithless," maintained a 
friendship with God, and carried in his holy life the seeds of 
the hidden church. This notice of Enoch is also interestincr 
as it comprises a precious biography, with sublime concise- 
ness in a single sentence, and as it holds up so simply and so 
beautifully the pattern of a perfect life, and a glorious exit. I 
know of no name in ancient history more worthy of christian 
emulation than the name of Enoch. It outshines not only 
the glitter of earthly conquest and secular reno\\Ti, but it has 
a charm surpassing that of inspired story, where the venera- 
ble and the mighty and the gifted are the theme. It may be 
a peculiar fantasy of mine, but for myself, brethren, I would 
rather be Enoch in the solitary grandeur of patriarchal holi- 
ness, than David with princely crown, or Elijah with prophet's 
sword, or Isaiah with harp of majestic melody. There could 
not be a more soothing unction to my soul, than to have it 
come down from that dark, mysterious period, in sweet and 
simple record, '• He walked v/ith God — He was not, for God 
took him." 

Our text presents the character of Enoch, and its recom- 
pense, each singular and striking in language and in fact. 
Let us consider the peculiar superiority of that life, and the 
nature and propriety of its reward. 

I. We will consider the character of Enoch, and attempt 
to develope the signilicance of the description '^ he walked 
with God.' 

First, This language implies that he maintained habitual 
communion with God. 

There is no reason to suppose that his communion was 
aided by any visible manifestations of his Almighty friend. 
Such peculiar intercourse between God and man was not un- 



exoch's character and reward. 333 

common at that early period, but it seems to have been re- 
served for uncommon emergencies, and for the revelation of 
important promises or threatenings. It is hardly probable, 
that the piety of the early saints was dependent for its culture 
on v/hat was tangible and palpable, and indeed the peculiar 
excellence of Enoch is ascribed by the apostle to that faith 
which is "the evidence of things not seen.'' 

There is an affection which brings near to the heart the 
absent one, though lonor and far removed from the outward 
eye. Should the visible world be completely shut out from 
view, the ever-living love would of itself make a spiritual pres- 
ence within the soul. And those thoughts that dwelt only 
on the distant, would bring the distant near. Then let the 
outward eye be opened, to gaze not on cold and vacant objects, 
but upon scenes of nature which were all associated with the 
departed ; let the green tields be the same through which he has 
walked with us, and the blue heavens the same on which he has 
gazed with us, and from each tiower and tree the voice of the 
absent will speak to us, and from each star the face of the 
absent will look down on us ; then let a real communica- 
tion be maintained with the departed, by messages of love, 
and records of history crossincr the land or the sea, and bringing 
back tidings and tokens which the well known hand has sealed, 
and how perfect may be the communication between human 
beings in their hours of separation, how they may walk to- 
gether, though invisible and inaudible and far asunder. Now 
here have we a faint image of Enoch's communion with God. 
The pious love which he cherished towards his Maker made 
a divine presence within his own soul, and he could walk 
with God as the divine Spirit revealed itself to the eye of 
that inward faith. When he looked abroad it was upon a 
creation every object of which was associated with the same 
invisible friend, and he could walk with God as he revealed 
himself in the lives of holy brethren amoncr the patriarchs, or 
in the mark upon the forehead of Cain. All nature as it un- 



334 Enoch's character axd reward. 

veiled its charms to the young eye of the antediluvian, was 
as the voice of God speaking to him in flocks and in harvests, 
from every winding river, and from every shady wood. Then 
he communed with God by intercourse still more direct. 
Though no blazing summit invited him upward to talk with 
his Maker as a man talketh with his friend, though no tem- 
ple welcomed him with priestly robe within its holy of holies, 
he prayed to God in his solitary tent, in the communion of 
the patriarchs, at home and abroad ; and when he mingled 
with men, his face shone like the face of Moses coming down 
from the mount, and the answer sent back from his Almighty 
friend was richer than that which descended on the house of 
Aaron when they ministered before the altar. Not alone in 
the communion of love, in the revelation of outward nature, 
but by prayer did Enoch walk with God. 

Secondly, It is implied in Enoch's walk with God, that he 
studied the divine character. 

In our earthly friendships, we are never satisfied till we are 
thoroughly acquainted with each other's souls. There is a 
jealous curiosity almost always accompanying an ardent at- 
tachment, which is restless to discover each plan and purpose, 
and must know the inward feelinor that mantles the face with 
joy or with gloom. We never feel that friendship is consum- 
mated till there is that perfect unbosoming of character, and 
^* as face answereth to face in water, so the heart of man to 
man." 

Now there is no reason to suppose that Enoch's piety was 
of that unintellectual character, that he could enjoy the so- 
ciety of his heavenly Friend without the exercise of thought. 
Indeed he could walk with one invisible only as he was ac- 
quainted with his attributes, and his increasing intimacy 
and affection must have led him to aspire after more ex- 
tended knowledge, and to search into the deep things of God. 
The opportunities for theological study at that early period 
may have been extremely limited, but he could have prose- 



Enoch's character and reward. 335 

cuted his researches without the aid of a prophet's school, or 
a learned library, or a systematic creed. His proximity to 
the period of the creation made him more intimate with the 
great first cause, and he could look back to that immediate 
exertion of Almighty power, as an event less distant than it is 
to us. Adam died only fifty-seven years before Enoch's 
translation, and Enoch probably enjoyed the society of that 
remarkable man for more than three centuries. From Adam's 
own lips he could learn the story of the creation, he could 
become acquainted with the primeval bliss of Eden, he could 
ascertain that law of paradise under which our first parents 
sinned and fell, he could look with familiar gaze into the 
dark problem of the origin of evil. By a more minute ac- 
quaintance with the events of that mysterious period, he could 
attain a clearer insight than we into the operations of Provi- 
dence, and the wisdom of those counsels which were devel- 
oped in the ruin of the human race. He had moreover the 
book of nature ever open to him, and those works through 
which he communed with their divine author were peculiarly 
rich in illustration of the divine character. In his o\mi sanc- 
tified and inspired consciousness he had another and better 
source of sacred knowledge, and favored as he was by the 
teachings of that Great Spirit whose society he cultivated, he 
was no doubt as highly venerated for the extent of his attain- 
ments as for the depth of his devotion. The patriarchs con- 
sulted him as their oracle, the antediluvian scholars treasured 
up his sayings. Whatever may be thought of the oriental 
traditions, which ascribe to him the invention of letters and 
learning, the literal import of his name implies that he was 
initiated into rare mysteries, and one of his predictions as 
it is preserved to us by an inspired apostle, discloses a reach 
of vision which from that remote period, the very beginning 
of the world's history, could look down through all the lapse 
of ages to the very last event which is the subject of prophe- 
cy, the final judgment of the ungodly. 



336 Enoch's character and reward. 

Thirdly, It is implied in the description of Enoch, that he 
was a co-worker with God. 

We always look for some active development of love in 
those who profess to be our friends. What we chiefly de- 
mand is a sympathy in our pursuits, a cooperation in all our 
plans, a willingness to aid us by strenuous and even self-de- 
nvinor exertions for our welfare. We cease to walk with 
that man as a friend, who is always professing his regard, 
and deriving a kind of enjoyment from our society, if he 
never stir himself to forward cur plans, and in the hour of 
need remain sluggish and cold. We suspect the motives of 
such a friendship, and we turn away in disgust from a self- 
ishness that can love us for its own satisfaction, while it will 
not lift a finger to do us good. 

Now I see no reason for a common idea of Enoch's walk 
with God, that it was a cloistered and passive piety, into which 
he retired, to enjoy the society of his heavenly friend. I do 
not believe that he secluded himself from earthly duty, and 
led the life of a hermit. I suspect that he would have for- 
feited his claim to that blessed friendship, if he had shrunk 
away in cowardice from a vricked wcrld — or that a vcice 
would have sought him out in his seclusion, like the voice 
that reached the hunted prophet of Israel in his cave — ^* What 
dost thou here Elijah." The very import of the phrase in 
other parts of the bible implies an active devotion to service 
and to toil, and for our antediluvian priest and prophet there 
could have been no hesitating and reluctant discharge of du- 
ty ; he must have held himself ready, waiting for the call of 
a master ; he must have voluntarily sought cut occasions of 
advancing those great purposes with which his intimacy with 
the divine mind made him familiar. 

Enoch was faithful in his family, and to the world. Could 
we learn the history of IMethusaleh, his first born son, we 
should see how a father's care and counsel had shed their in- 
fluence on that life of nearly a thousand years. And we are 



Kxactfs chjleactep. axd ri:wap.x>. 33j 

by inspired tradiuon that he rose up fearlessly to re- 
prore the flagrant sins of the age, and to yindicate the honor 
of his God from rqproach. " Beheld," was his bold and elo- 
quent langoage, as he stood forth amcmg the profane and the 
Tile, the scoiSTers and the murderers, the contemners of God 
and the cormpters of man — as he walked among them 
nnharmed, jealousy contending for his almighty Friend, 
•' Behead the Lord cometh with ten thousand of his saints, to 
execute judgment upcm all, and to conrince aU that are un- 
godly am<Hig them, of all their trngodly deeds which they 
haye ungodly c<Hnmitted, and of all their hard speeches 
which ungodly sinners haye spoken against him/' 

Fourthly, It is implied in Enoch's walk with God, that 
there must haye subsisted strong mutual complacency be- 
tween him and the Diyine Being. 

How can two walk together except they be agreed f 
The discoyery of mutual foibles will sometimes mar the warm- 
est friendships, and that attachment is the most intim^ate 
and the most lasting which is grounded on reciprocal es- 
teem. 

Now there was eyidently a peculiar loye in the diyine mind 
towards this faithful and deyoted senrant. The ancient trans- 
lators of the CHd Testament ccHisidered this the predominant 
element in the phrase, and as the best explanaticm of his walk 
with God, we read in the Septuagint yersion of our text, that 
Enoch pleased God. Paul also in the epistle to the Hebrews 
asserts that " before his translation he had this testimony, that 
he pleased God. " There was a delightful consciousness of 
the diyine approyal ditfiised throucrh his life. Eyer he walk- 
ed under the smile of a Father with whom he was at peace. 
His sins were all forgiyen, his sacrifices were all acceptable, 
he looked forward with the ftill assurance of hope to his final 
reward. 

Similar was the satisfaction with which he contemplated 
the diyine perfections. He admired that character the more 

•29 



338 Enoch's character and reward. 

he gazed and studied, and where its mystery baffled his search 
he bowed in humble adoration. He had stood at the grave 
of Abel, and wept over the early grave of purity and loveli- 
ness, but he never murmured at the darkness and gloom of 
death, for it was the portion w^hich God assigned to his crea- 
tures. It w'as not for him to question the propriety of God's 
dispensations. He could not blam.e the Creator for not plac- 
incr him in the crarden, instead of Adam, and entrustinor to 
his pure and obedient walk the destinies of the world. He 
found no fault that himself and his children were involved in 
that fearful downfall, as the consequence of eating an apple. 
No, his growing complacency towards the divine character 
hushed every uprising doubt, and he quieted himself in the 
sw^eet assurance, that the friend with whom he walked did 
everything right. 

Such was Enoch's happy w^alk w^ith God — so spiritual, so 
intelligent, so active, so concordant. Our earthly friendships 
are short-lived. Our devotion to God is fitful and incon- 
stant. But that delightful walk was continued for more than 
three centuries, ever multiplying its blessed results upon his 
character and making his path like the shining light which 
shineth more and more unto the perfect day. Such an inti- 
mate communion must have deepened his humility, compar- 
ing as he constantly did his own poor attainments with the 
perfection of his almighty Friend. It must have increased 
his holiness, exposing his own character to the searching 
gaze of that eye w hich cannot look upon sin but w^ith abhor- 
rence. There must have been in his own, a growing assim- 
ilation to the divine life, as the result of that heavenly com- 
munion. So he was found steadily persevering in that bles- 
sed career, when his rew^ard came. He walked with God, 
and Jo ! he was not, for God took him. 

II. Let us now proceed to consider the nature and pro- 
priety of his reward. 

There have been three different opinions with regard to 
the translation of Enoch. 



339 

It has been thought by some, that the narrative alludes to 
remarkable persecutions to which this servant of God was 
exposed, and to his deliverance from them by the divine hand. 
'' He was not found of his enemies, for God rescued him.'' 
But an interpretation so frigid and unnatural, it is not worth 
while to examine. 

It has been thought by others, that the text describes poeti- 
cally the sudden death of Enoch, by which he was delivered 
from the pains of sickness, or the terrors of the last struggle. 
It is related of one of our revolutionary statesmen that it was 
his constant prayer that he might die a sudden death. I 
have stood by the shattered elm which suffered with that ven- 
erable hero from a lightning stroke. But a desire like this 
was too refined for an antediluvian patriarch, and such sudden 
and violent deaths, are more frequently in biblical history the 
tokens of divine displeasure. 

The more probable opinion is the common one, that by 
miraculous interposition he was taken to heaven alive, with- 
out undergoing the terrors of death in any form. It is the 
express assertion of the apostle, that he did not taste death. 
His death moreover was premature. He did not live out one 
half of the portion assigned to the antediluvian patriarchs — 
and although it is the classic superstition that *^ whom the 
gods love die young," it was the prevalent notion of the 
Orientals that a long life was the mark of God's peculiar fa- 
vor, while an early death was deemed the punishment for 
singular and enormous guilt. This cutting off of the holy 
patriarch in the midst of his years, in the bloom and vigor of 
life, when he was a young man only 365 years old, must have 
been a miraculous transplanting of his existence into another 
and better world. Not that he could have entered heaven 
witli his terrestrial body unchanged, but by some mysterious 
process as the Jewish Rabbins described it, " he was disar- 
rayed cf the foundation corporeal, and clothed upon with 



340 Enoch's character and reward. 

the foundation spiritual," — in a moment, in the twinkling of 
an eye, without the purifying transformation of death, '' he 
was fitted for paradise, to gaze on the river of life, and pluck 
the goodly fruits of the garden forever." Let us consider the 
peculiar propriety of such a reward. 

First, The good man had become so sensitive to the evil 
of sin, that it must have been extremely painful to continue 
longer in a world so deeply depraved. His intimate commu- 
nion with God was ever deepening and purifying his piety, 
and the holier he became, the more intense w^as his abhor- 
rence of iniquity. He was sensitive to the remains of it in his 
own nature, and to his divinely illumined eye, the personal 
transgressions which before had escaped his notice, stood up 
like mountains. He was pained also by the outbreakings of 
presumptuous sin in others. He was daily doomed to hear the 
scoffs and blasphemies of the ungodly, to witness the proud 
career of rebellion as it stalked in giant strides over the earth. 
He was jealous for the honor of his almighty Friend, and his 
ear caught up each sound of wrong and outrage, and every 
breathing of impiety sent a pang to his pious heart. '* That 
righteous man dwelling among them in seeing and hearing, 
vexed his righteous soul from day to day with their unlawful 
deeds." How fit that to such a one the day of deliverance 
should have been at hand, and that midway in the journey of 
life, he should have been caught up to the pure air and the 
cheering society of heaven. 

Secondly, His imperfect communion with God led him to 
pant for something more intimate. Delightful as had been 
his devotional intercourse with his heavenly Friend, deep as 
had been his insight into the divine character, ardent and 
untiring as had been the devotion of his powers, he felt that 
there were barriers, in his nature, which kept down his lofty 
aspirings, and pushed back the energies of which his soul 
was capable. He felt such delight in the partial manifesta- 



Enoch's character and reward. 341 

tions he had already received, that his bosom heaved with 
irrepressible longings that the image might be completed, 
and the ceaseless cry of his soul was, 

" Oh ! for a closer walk with God." 

He panted for such union with God, as would dim the vis- 
ion and bewilder the spirit of a mortal. He longed to look 
in with a familiar gaze on those sacred mysteries which are 
hidden from human curiosity. He looked forward with ea- 
gerness to a sphere of exertion, where he should not stand 
up alone and unavailing against the arts of the world, but 
where newly endowed he should enter on some more suc- 
cessful and glorious mission for his king. His eye looked 
upward with no selfish impatience, but with strong and holy 
desire. He felt assured of the immortality of his being, and 
of its lofty destination ; but he bowed in faithful submissive- 
ness, and said, " all the days of my appointed time will I 
wait till my change come." He was in a strait betwixt two, 
when he looked to earthly duty he chose to perform it, be- 
cause it was his Father's will, but yet with Paul he said from 
his inmost soul, " to depart is far better." And how fit that 
those longings should have been early consummated, in the 
disrobing of the corporeal veil which obstructed his vision — 
when he was not — not in the gloom of spiritual famishment and 
dimness — not in the hard lot of the laborer who casts his 
seed upon the rocks, for God took him to himself, to the light 
and the nutriment of heavenly society, to the mission of an- 
gels. 

Thirdly, Before the christian era, death was probably an 
object of greater dread than it has been since. Of all the 
patriarchs and prophets under the old dispensation, we read 
not of one who died in triumph. Of the antediluvian saints 
it is simply recorded that they died. Of Abraham and Isaac, 
it is only written, that '' they gave up the ghost in a good old 
age, and were gathered to their people." Jacob and Joseph 

29* 



342 Enoch's character and reward. 

depart with brilliant and delightful visions of prosperity for 
the nation, but they die and give no sign of exultation for 
themselves. Throughout the poetical parts of the bible, the 
gloomiest figures are those connected with the grave, and if 
there are passages which express the longing for a future life, 
they are so few and so far apart as to evince that immortality 
had not yet been fully brought to light. The hope of heaven 
had not become so sure and so definite that it could throw its 
charm over the sepulchre, or light up the chamber where the 
good man met his fate. It did not assuage the pang of be- 
reavement, it did not kindle rapt visions in the dim eye, or 
call forth strains of music from the faltering tongue. And the 
few, the favored ones whom God honored with a triumphal 
departure were not left to tread the dark pathway to heaven, 
but were caught up at once to meet him in the air. This 
was the reward of Enoch — that he should not lie down to a 
doom that was dark and hopeless, and enter through the 
tribulation of the last struggle into his final rest, but that he 
should be clothed on earth with an immortal nature, and with- 
out stopping his earthly song, the music of heaven should be 
breathed upon his ear. 

Fourthly, At the commencement of the world's history, 
such an indication of the souFs immortal existence as was 
given in the removal of Enoch was an important part of the 
scheme for enlightening and saving man. 

It was not God's design to leave the old dispensation in ut- 
ter darkness. The light of a few examples, he afforded to 
animate the faith, and dispel the gloom of his chosen. If it 
did not make the death scene glorious, if it called forth ex- 
pressions of hope but seldom and faintly, it kept the righteous 
from despair. The death of Abel startled the world into a fear- 
ful consciousness of what death was. They gazed on his pale 
face, they felt of his cold limbs, they buried his useless frame. 
The voice of his blood cried from the ground in words of 
terror and vengeance, but no voice came from his ransomed 



EXOCHS CHAP.ACTER AXD REWARD. 343 

spirit above, to bring peace and hope to tbo-se who looked 
forward to the same fate. Being dead he vet spoke, but he 
spoke of the favors which God imparts to a righteous man on 
earth, rather than of the rewards which he dispenses to the 
saints in heaven. But the translation of Enoch was a new 
chapter in the spiritual prophecy. '' He was not" — men met 
not his face in their familiar walks. :: :-; ceased to hear his 
voice of faithful exiiortation. but they h?. : : : ^athered around 
his death bed, or carried him oat slowly and heavily from his 
tent, or found his hemes apoa the ::uns. He v s not 

amonsr them, but they knew that it '*God 

took him.*' There is then a home i«-r i c^ n^ - - ::1 

with God, there is existence beyond the earth, the 
for the faithful ; and why not, was the ill-sir: — _ i 

faint whisper of ancient piety, why n raid to the 

abode of Enoch as the mansion c: ^ ^ — e:. That 
litde candle" threw its beams down in: e ages oi patri- 

archal and national history. It inspn .. ...c harp of David 
when he sung, '* I shaU be satisfied when I awake with thy 
likeness." Even Job caught a glimpse of that glorious re- 
surrection which it has been sof^M)sed to typify, and exclaimed 
in rapt and holy enthusiasm, " I know that my Redeemer liv- 
eth, and though after my skin w<Mins destroy : h is : :c . . yet 
in my flesh I shall see God." 

The discourse will be concluded by two brief reflections. 
First, There is nothing in Enochs character which may 
not be imitated by modern Christians. He communed with 
God by faith, by sight, by prayer. So can we, for we have a 
surer word to inspire our faith, we can see God in richer and 
more glorious works, we can approach him by a new and 
living access to the throne of grace. He studied the divine 
character, and sought to grow in knowledge while he grew 
in piety. So may we, in the light of a clearer revelation, 
and a wider exp>erience than he could consult. He sought 
to do the divine will — in labors and toils for his master, most 



344 Enoch's character and reward. 

abundant. So may we, with higher advantages for pious ac- 
tivity, with a better soil on which to work. He was the friend 
of God — but ** behold what manner of love the Father hath 
bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God." 
Oh ! my brethren, with all this superior light, with the new 
and loftier claims of spiritual adoption upon our souls, how 
few Enochs are there among us walking with God — thus 
spiritually, intelligently, actively, harmoniously walking, and 
panting for a purer and better portion in heaven. 

Finally, The death of a Christian ^^ who walks with God," 
is more glorious than the translation of Enoch. It developes 
clearer and larger views, and exercises a brighter faith which 
can triumph even over the agonies of dissolution. Could 
the antediluvian saint have gazed in prospect upon a chris- 
tian death scene, could he have entered the chamber lighted 
with gospel promises, could he have seen hope brightening 
up in the midst of weakness and pain, could he have heard 
such blessed words as often come from the lips of the dying, 
could he have seen death robbed of its sting, and swallowed 
up in the victory of the joyous and ransomed spirit, — could 
Enoch have known all this, he would not have asked for the 
privilege of miraculous translation ; he would not have been 
ambitious for a seat in Elijah^s chariot; he would not have 
sought to bring back the cloud on which Jesus went up, that 
it might bear him also into heaven, but his prayer would ra- 
ther have been, *^ Let me die the death of the righteous, and 
let my last end be like his." 



NOTE. 

This was one of two sermons which Mr. Homer wrote in a single 
week. It was preached at South Berwick, Dec. 27, 1840. 



SERMON IIV. 



THE DUTY OF IMMEDIATE OBEDIENCE TO THE DI- 
VINE COMMANDS. 



I MADE HASTE, AND DELAYED NOT TO KEEP THY COMMANDMENTS. 

Psalm 119 : 60. 

The Psalm from which the text is taken, is peculiar both 
in its structure and its style. It was probably written near 
the close of David's life, and comprises a collection of choice 
memoranda from his experience. Particularly is it rich in 
the variety of its commendations of the law of God, as the 
object of his love and his obedience. There is no connected 
train of thought through its different parts, and it has been apt- 
ly styled a vase of jewels, rather than a golden chain. Yet so 
significant and suggestive are its expressions that the mind 
dwells upon each isolated clause, and reads volumes in each 
recorded meditation. The writer in his alphabetical arrange- 
ment, designed not so much a display of mechanical skill, as 
a mode of impressing upon the memory each one of these liv- 
ing oracles. 

Prominent in the Psalmist's experience was the trait allu- 
ded to in the text. No proof of love to the law was superior 
to this — the promptness with which he had complied with its 
requirements. He remembers how the beauty and fitness of 
God's claim upon him were presented to his mind in child- 
hood, and how unhesitatingly he had yielded to the demand. 



346 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 

With him there had been no lingering among the pleasures 
of youth, no pushing aside of the heavenly visitant to the op- 
portunities of a riper season. And now in his old age, sit- 
ting dow^n to enjoy the reminiscences of the past, to collect 
the scattered fragments of his spiritual life, this bright reflec- 
tion starts up as the prelude of his history, and sends its light 
through the whole train of his experiences ; — ^' I made haste 
and delayed not to keep thy commandments." 

I speak perhaps in the hearing of some who can adopt this 
language as their own. it awakens a refreshing sympathy 
in their bosoms. They remember with joy their early conse- 
cration to God, and the reflection lights up the whole memo- 
ry of the past. I speak in the hearing of others who obeyed 
indeed, but only after long delay. Day after day they neg- 
lected the call of the Spirit, and clung to the world amid ten 
thousand inducements that would have drawn them to God. 
And now they are amazed at the folly and madness of that 
delay. They see how fearful was the risk they incurred, 
how great are the privileges they have lost forever ; and they 
want words to describe that grace which can pardon such ag- 
gravated iniquity. They would give worlds, could they be- 
gin life anew, and devote that wasted portion to the ser- 
vices of piety. I speak no doubt in the hearing of a number 
who are now procrastinating sinners. They know their duty, 
but they defer its performance. They yield to the sluggish 
tendencies of their nature, or to some sinfully-suggested views, 
or to some delusive promise of future opportunities. To all 
such I wish to hold up the wisdom of the Psalmist's example, 
and to show that God's command to repentance ought to be 
obeyed immediately. I shall consider as admitted the pro- 
priety of repentance at some time or other, and shall confine 
my remarks to the importance of immediate action. 

I. I remark that it is the dictate of the human mind to dis- 
charge with promptness those duties to which any one of the 
three following considerations may apply : the possibility of 



IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 347 

performing the duty Jiow^ the advantages of performing it noic, 
the uncertainty of ever finding another opportunity for per- 
forming it. 

First, The immediate performance of the duty should be 
seen by the mind to be possible. There are some duties 
which from their very nature require delay. They have to 
be looked at prospectively ; and with regard to them, there 
can be no sense of present obligation. There are some other 
duties which require long meditation to satisfy the mind 
of their importance, and a long course of preparation before 
it is possible to perform them. In such cases the disposition 
to promptness is manifested by immediately directing the 
mind to the subject, and immediately beginning to prepare 
for the work. But when the soul clearly perceives the duty 
of the present time and the possibility of its immediate per- 
formance, that consideration alone may be sufficient to excite 
it to action. Apart from the calculation of benefits to be se- 
cured, apart from the prospect of future hindrance, it is the 
instinctive dictate of the human mind in its best state to do 
the duty now. There is a feeling of restlessness natural to 
man while such a possible work is left unexecuted. There 
is a feelinor of self-abasement and dissatisfaction so lonor as a 
single account remains uncanceled. The mere sense of pres- 
ent duty calls for action with an immediateness that knows no 
delay. And that is the best and the wisest man who yields 
to these demands the instant they are admitted by the con- 
science, even though there is no interest to allure, and no 
danger to impel him to obedience. 

Secondly, This disposition to promptness is greatly stimu- 
lated by the prospect of peculiar advantages which may de- 
pend upon it. 

Sometimes the advantages relate to the duty, and not at all 
to the time of its performance. They can be secured as well 
by future as by immediate action. But when advantages may 
be obtained to-day, and if neglected now may be lost forever, 



348 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 

the dictate of wisdom is to improve the present moment. 
Thus the tradesman though his note becomes due at some 
future period, will often be at great pains to forestall his pay- 
ments, that he may prevent the accumulation of interest, and 
secure confidence and respect for his habits of business. 
The general who finds a breach in the walls and the garrison 
asleep, although he might make the assault to-morrow with 
success, urges his troops to an immediate onset ; because he 
knows that victory will be easier before the guards wake up 
and the breach is filled. The physician may be confident 
that his patient will recover if attendance be postponed a few 
hours, yet, if a little delay will protract the process of cure, 
and leave the remnants of disease to be struggled with through 
life, he makes haste to the bedside, and administers the res- 
torative the instant it can be procured. The dispenser of 
charity may believe that life can be sustained yet longer amid 
the peltings of cold and the craving of hunger, yet, because 
he knows that another day of misery is added by his tardi- 
ness, and that day might be made one of joy to the famishing 
and shelterless circle, he hastens this moment to the scene cf 
sufifering with the bounty in his hand. And that man is always 
ridiculed who comes up to the work, successfully it may be, 
but not till after its harvest season is over, and its first fruits 
have lost their freshness to the taste. 

Thirdly, There is a still greater incentive to immediate 
action, if it be probable that the present is the only opportu- 
nity for acting at all. If it were possible to resist the pres- 
ent call of conscience, or the demands of interest, where is 
the man who would delay to act with the prospect of failure 
starincr }iim in the face. If the debtor feels insecure as to 
the permanence of his abilities, he makes no delay in his 
payments, lest to-morrow he go home with ruined credit and 
blasted reputation. If there is a dying man to be brought 
back to life, there is hurry in the physician's step. When 
the prospect is that the poor may perish if exposed to the in- 



1 



IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 349 

clemency of another night, no storm can keep back the char- 
itable visitant. Here is the greatest incentive to human action 
— the despair of future opportunities. How it nerves the arm 
to-day, to think that it may be nerveless to-morrow. How it 
quickens the step in pursuit of an object, to imagine that 
hereafter the path may be obstructed, or the power of pursu- 
ing it lost, or the object itself removed beyond the reach. 
Boast not thyself of to-morrow, is the dictate of human as 
well as divine wisdom ; and if the man were deprived of every 
other motive, the uncertainty of the future alone would be 
enough to impel him, with anxious brow, with agitated and 
nervous energy, with the combined powers of the whole man, 
to seize the present instant for the discharge of its great du- 
ties. 

Suppose now a duty in which all these circumstances were 
combined ; suppose the individual were urged on by the pres- 
sure of present obligation ever bearing him down with its 
iron weight, and admitting no relief but from instant action ; 
suppose moreover that as he tried to shake off that burden, 
there should come up before him the array of joys and privi- 
leges to be secured by an immediate movement, and to be 
lost forever, if such a movement were not made ; and sup- 
pose as he turned away from the spectacle in hope of discov- 
ering some " loop-hole of retreat," there should start upon 
his vision the prospect of despair for the future, and the 
thought of the last opportunity gone forever should haunt him ; 
— what would bethought of a man so importuned by circum- 
stances, so hedged in by motives, if he should still break away 
from every influence, and rush on in his career of neglect. 
But just such is the condition of the delaying sinner ; for I pro- 
pose to show, 

II. That all these three considerations unite in the highest 
possible degree in the repentance he is urged to perform : 
first, it is a duty which can be done now ; secondly, the high- 

30 



350 IMMEDIATE REPENTAXCE. 

est advantages in the universe depend upon its immediate 
performance ; and thirdly, there is no security in delay. 

First, The sinner cannot resist the pressure of present ob- 
ligation by any idea of the absolute impossibility of immedi- 
ate repentance. On the contrary all the circumstances con- 
nected with the duty show that it can be done now, and no- 
thing but the desperate depravity of the heart, and the want 
of a willing mind prevents its immediate performance. 

One of the circumstances w^hich prove this, is the nature 
of the divine command, whether found in the word of God or 
in our own consciences. The direction of our Saviour is to 
all without distinction, sinners as well as Christians — ^' thou 
shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart." It is not 
commanded to love him to-morrow ; it is not commanded to 
begin a course of preparation which may result at some fu- 
ture time in compliance ; but ^' thou s?ialt love ;" and the 
command is echoed by the conscience of the sinner restless 
in his sense of disobedience, '^ thou shalt love." To him that 
is at ease in his sins, and has not God in all his thoughts 
there comes with still more appropriateness the mandate — 
'^ Repent ;" and the present moment, and every moment 
claims this duty as its ov»'n, and urges the sinner to imme- 
diate action. The sense of obligation respects the present, 
and not at all the future. What is to be hereafter is not yet 
obligatory. And the sinner who says, I will repent to-mor- 
row, neither obeys the command of scripture, nor satisfies 
the claim of conscience, but only makes an abortive effort, by 
a cheat, to rid himself of both. Now should we believe that 
God commands in this urgent mrmner what the sinner can 
in no way perform ? That he drives him on by the voice 
from above, and the voice from conscience, to what is in 
every sense an impossibility ? That he dooms him to the frowns 
of Heaven, and the lashings of remorse, when he knows that 
the sinner is absolutely and literally unable to do otherwise 



OOrEDLATE REPEXTAXCE. 351 

than as he does ? We call that king a tyrant who commands 
us this instant to raise a burden which he knows we cannot 
lift. And what should be said of him who would lay a tax 
on the soul too grievous to be borne : a yoke which, so far 
from being easy, a burden which, so far from being light, 
are intolerable and every way impossible to be endured ? 
There is nothing like this in the government of Heaven. 
Just and true art thou oh God in all thy words and in all thy 
works. 

Another circimastance which shows the possibility of im- 
mediate repentance is foond in the very nature of the duty. 
It is not one which finds no corresponding emotions in the 
soul of man. There is a sense of fitness within him which 
it meets. There is a panting after elevation which it grati- 
fies. There is an aching void which it fills. ^Ve come to 
you who love the world with an tmsatisftring, self-loathing 
fondness, and we point you to an object worthy of your high- 
est capacities for affection. We come to you who are ex- 
hausted and worn out in sin, and we invite you to a service 
which can renew your strength, and remove your faintness 
and fatigue. The being whom we commend to your affec- 
tion, is not one whom it is hard to love, unless the sinfuJ 
will makes it hard. He is a being who loves you. He is 
not one that has withdrawn from your knowledge, and quite 
veiled himself in the majesty of his inscrutable perfections. 
You can see him wherever you go — in the mountain or the 
stream, in the earth or the sky. 

Awake, asleep, at hoooe, abroad. 
You are smrounded still with God. 

Nor has he merely hung himself up in his universe like a 
picture to be gazed at and admired. To each one of you he 
comes nigh with proofs of his personal interest and affection. 
He is your father. Day by day has he watched over you 
with a tenderness that has not ceased even in vour inorrati- 



352 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 

tude. A mother may forget the child of her bosom, but 
God never forgets his erring, ungrateful offspring. Nor is 
this all. He contemplates your moral condition and pros- 
pects with unfeigned sorrow. Not willing that any should 
perish, he has multiplied motive upon motive for leading you 
to repentance. He has unveiled the glory of his character, 
to see if he could not attract your admiring gaze. He has 
sacrificed his Son to make known to you the strugglings of 
his omnipotent Spirit. Sometimes he has opened to you the 
terrific gates of wo, and you have heard the eternal sighing 
from which he would redeem you. And now this hour he 
comes once more with his entreaties of love — ^' How shall I 
give thee up, Ephraim ? How shall I deliver thee, Israel ? 
How shall I make thee as Admah ? How shall I set thee 
asZeboimr 

We point you to the character of Christ, the one altogether 
lovely. If there can be an object commending itself to the 
affectionate susceptibilities of your nature, you find it in the 
amiable and lowly Son of God. How fondly you would have 
admired such a child or such a brother ; but the relation he 
sustains to you is more intimate and endearing. He is your 
Redeemer. Each step he took in his pilgrimage, the thought 
of you went with him. You accompanied him as he retired to 
the garden in the night of his agony, you stood by his side 
when the earth quaked in the spiritual darkness of the suf- 
ferer. The arms which were stretched out upon the cross 
were meant to bring you into the embrace of his redemption, 
and the sundered bands of the grave brought to you the liberty 
of a glorious resurrection. In those last words to his chosen 
on the morning of his ascension, his eye gathered time and 
space within the sphere of its i vision, and fixed its serene 
gaze on every creature. And can you talk without self-re- 
proach of an entire and absolute want of power to love 
him in his purity, when he deigned to love you in your vileness. 

Nor is the service to which the duty of repentance calls 



IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 353 

you an unreasonable service. You are not called on to com- 
mence a pilgrimage requiring great forethought and prepara- 
tion. You are not called to a perpetual seclusion from the 
world, before which you must *' go and bid them farewell that 
are in the house." You have spent years in slighting the in- 
finite love of God, and you are called upon to exercise peni- 
tence in view of the neolect. You have been livincr with low 
aims, and you are now called to the dignity of exalted and noble 
purposes of action. There is a glory in living for God and 
for the eternal destinies of the soul, which is worthy of your 
nature. And the exchange you are commanded to make, is 
one that commends itself to the instinctive and instantaneous 
judgment of every soul that will pause in its career of guilt 
and think. 

Here then is the work of repentance. Begin to love 
God and to serve him. God is before you in all his per- 
fection — does it require a long while for you to deter- 
mine whether he is worthy of your love ? Must you have 
time to count the cost before you can enter upon his ser- 
vice? Be not deceived. God is as lovely now as he ever 
will be, and his service is as good and reasonable a service. 
There can be no intermediate state between sin and holiness, 
no moral purgatory where you may sit down to undergo 
some process of purification, or receive some miraculous 
light into your soul. " He that is not for God is against 
him.'' The claims of this love and this service will wait 
for no such tardy workmen, but must pass them by as still 
unfruitful and disobedient. 

Another circumstance which proves not only that the sin- 
ner can but may repent, is the divine aid which may be fur- 
nished him in the work. The sinner never will avail him- 
self of his natural ability without divine aid. Notwithstand- 
ing the reasonableness of the claims of God, men have an 
obstinacy and a perverseness of will which prevent their 

yielding. God often sends his Holy Spirit to counteract 

30* 



354 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 

this opposing influence ; to make the truth a more vivid 
reality to the eye of the soul ; to fix the gaze upon it with an 
intenseness that makes it hard for the sinner to break away 
from the attraction. '^ Can the Ethiopian change his skin 
or the leopard his spots?" but, blessed be God, the sinner 
may hope for a divine co-worker, and he need not despair. 
My impenitent friend, are you this moment listening with 
some degree of earnestness to this presentation of your duty 
— the Holy Spirit is directing your soul to the truth. Are 
you fixing your gaze on the lovely character of Jehovah — 
Jehovah himself is unveiling his hitherto hidden glories to 
your view. Will you not now resolve to be the Lord's ? 
An Almighty influence may '' w^ork in you both to will and 
to do of his good pleasure." Without delay then, *^ work out 
your own salvation with fear and trembling." 

Secondly, The advantages secured by repentance at the 
present time, are lost if the work is delayed to a future sea- 
son. Even if the duty be subsequently performed it cannot 
be in circumstances so favorable as the present. Each fleet- 
ing moment carries with it opportunities which depart never 
more to return. And if it could be revealed that salvation 
in the end was sure, still he who could seize the passing in- 
stant to commence a life of holiness, would be the wisest 
man, because by delaying present duty he would lose inesti- 
mable benefits. 

One of these benefits is implied in the very nature of the 
work of repentance. The sinner is now in a state of guilt, 
comfortless, remorseful guilt. He may pretend to be absorb- 
ed in the vanities of the world ; he may affect gaiety amid 
the threatenings of God's law ; but he knows, and in his se- 
rious moments, he will confess that he is not happy. He 
carries about within him an enemy that is perpetually war- 
ring with his peace. Amid the whirl of passion he hears a 
voice of terror. In the solitary night of the soul he is scared 
by hideous shapes. All his life-time he is in bondage. But 



IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 355 

repentance instantly breaks the fetters which bind him, chases 
away the spectres of his darkness, and the mild accents of a 
Father strike music upon his ear — My child, thy sins are 
forgiven thee. If he put off the work though it be only for 
a day, or a week, or a year, all the intervening time he must 
continue the victim of that terror and that servitude. When 
he looks up to God, there meets him a frown of wrath, ra- 
ther than a smile of love. When he looks into his soul, there 
is not a ray of purity to relieve the prospect of total corrup- 
tion. All this while, the burden is accumulating. All this 
while, the crucifixion of the Son of God goes on afresh. 
Oh ! my friends, is it a light thing to be living under the an- 
ger of the Almighty, though it be but for a day ? Is it a 
light thing to persist in wronging a father of your affections, 
though it be but another week ? Is it a light thing to con- 
tinue to trample under foot the blood of the covenant, though 
you may at some future period receive that offended one to 
your embrace, and wash in that fountain for uncleanness. 

Another of these advantages is the immediate commence- 
ment of the work of sanctification in the soul. This is not the 
work of a day or a year, but of a whole life. Ask the aged 
Christian why he would wish a renewal of his youth, and a 
recommencement of his pilgrimage, and he will tell you it is 
because he would complete the process of maturing his 
christian character, and go home to God " like a shock of 
corn fully ripe in its season." And not only does the nature 
of the work render it one of long-protracted and strenuous 
exertion, but every moment of delay aggravates the difficulty 
of accomplishment. Perseverance in sin tends to deepen the 
corruption of our nature. The longer the indulgence, the 
harder is it to break up completely and radically the habit of 
transgression, and the weaker is the aid of those natural prin- 
ciples of good which have been shattered and worn out by 
perpetual opposition. The christian life is a warfare, not on- 
ly requiring the longest possible campaign for its victorious 



356 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 

issue, but dependent on an early beginning for the keenness 
of its weapons, and the ease with which the battle may be won. 
My friend, even if you were sure of your final salvation, how 
much better to begin now the work of self-discipline, rather 
than wait for the weakness of disease and the decrepitude of 
dotao^e, and then go home to heaven but a spiritual babe 
hardly fit for the Master's service. 

Another of these benefits is the immediate change in the 
influence exerted upon others. '' One sinner destroy eth much 
good." We are creatures of example. No one can esti- 
mate the immensity of the good or the evil he may do his 
fellow-men. A single individual obscure and weak, has pow- 
er over a multitude that no man can number ; and power that 
is eternal. Each moment of our existence may be fraught 
with the destinies of thousands whom we have never seen. 
I know of a Christian, in a comparatively humble walk in life, 
w^ho never dreamed of acting beyond the narrow sphere which 
God seemed to have appointed her ; but when she died, a 
voice went forth from her grave which was heard all over 
the mountains and vallies of her native land, and crossed the 
ocean to shed the '' undecaying sunset" of her example upon 
the old world, and make multitudes of every tongue *^ rise up to 
call her blessed." And what is true of the power of religious 
influence, is truer still of the influence of sin ; because the de- 
pravity of man is fitted to receive and cherish the unholy im- 
pression. If the mysteries of this great subject were unfold- 
ed to our view^, and we could see the separate links in this 
invisible chain, what truths would it not disclose of the pow- 
er of the weakest. The pollution that defiles a family or a 
neighborhood or a nation, might be traced back to a solitary 
thought in the bosom of some obscure individual who lived 
ages and ages ago. But that was no solitary thought. Though 
it did not express itself audibly in words ; it spoke forth in 
the louder language of the eye or the life, and waked into 
being kindred thoughts in the breasts of others, to go on to 



IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 357 

their work of devastation and death forever. But, my friends, 
each one of you may be destined to a work for God, as distin- 
guished as you are now performing for sin and wo. If your 
name is not known, your character will be felt. The secret 
aspirations you put up in the depths of your soul after holiness 
and communion with God, may be the first link in a golden 
chain that connects you with the ends of the earth. Ages 
and ages hence, some fellow saint on the plains of heaven 
may trace back his own conversion to the impulse you start- 
ed by this day's repentance, and may point you to a multitude 
whom himself has called to share your blessedness. The 
man who repents, if it may be, on his death bed, after a long 
life of disobedience to God, has to go to heaven with the re- 
miniscence of days and years, each moment of which has per- 
haps been fitting souls as precious as his own for destruction ; 
and the evil of his life is living on in its undeviating ca- 
reer of mischief, while he is praising God among the redeemed. 
In this view, how important, my friends, is immediate activ- 
ity. If you do hope for future opportunities as good for 
yourself, you cannot be so selfish as to care nothing for others 
whom your present course may ruin. Remember that the 
evil you may do, if you continue longer in sin, you can never 
undo, even though you hereafter attain the highest summit 
of perfection on earth, and the office of an archangel in hea- 
ven. Cease then this murderous career. This instant begin 
the service of God, and give the first impulse to a train of 
influences which may go on and gather an ever increasing 
light through the ages of a blessed eternity. 

Thirdly, If the duty of repentance is neglected now, there 
IS reason to fear that it will never be performed. If the ad- 
vantages of the present opportunity are not heeded, how much 
less will be noticed the inferior advantages of the future. 
You who defer the work of repentance can have no well- 
grounded expectation of another period like this, but you 
perhaps imagine that the sudden providence of God may ar- 



358 



IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 



rest your downward progress, or that the immediate prospect 
of eternity in sickness or old age may alarm you into religion. 
I need not reply by alluding to the well known uncertainty 
of your existence beyond the present moment. But how do 
you know that the providence you are anticipating may not 
deprive you of your reason ? What hope can you cherish 
that you can terminate aright, on the tossings of your death 
bed, the struggle which now in the vigor of all your powers 
you terminate wrong ? And old age — interesting old age — 
amiable old age — trust it not, trust it not in its decay and its 
dimness. You have seen the hoary-headed sinner full of self- 
gratulation for the past, full of hope for the future. Not a 
cloud dimned the brightness of his reminiscences, not a cloud 
hung over his eternal prospects. Deluded old man ! he had 
passed his fourscore years in empty pleasures, and now he 
had forgotten their utter emptiness. He had been without 
God in the world, but he did not remember his solitariness. 
He was totterinof alonor with the phantom of an inane fancv 
in his embrace, and leaning on a staff that could not support 
him. Oh ! if there be a spectacle in the universe for one to 
weep over with tears that can bring no relief, it will be such 
as you, sinner, will afford, if you delay the work of this hour 
until you are too old to appreciate its claims. 

But aside from the uncertainty of life, the distraction of 
sickness, the blindness of dotage, there is another circum- 
stance which increases the improbability of your future re- 
pentance. It is the accumulation of power which every habit 
of sin is acquiring, the longer it is indulged. Conscience is 
an easily offended monitor, and the reproof that is slighted 
to-day is more feebly uttered to-morrow, and the third day its 
whispers may be too low to wake up the lethargy of the soul. 
The sins which you cling to now, will cling to you hereafter, 
and the work which early attended to would have been com- 
paratively like the putting off of a garment, will become at 
length like the plucking out of a right eye, or the cutting off 



I 



IMMEDIATE REPEXTAXCE. 359 

of a right hand. God's spirit will come less frequently to the 
heart that is only hardened by his influences, and which at 
every slighted visit is the more strengthened to resist his fu- 
ture solicitations. Do not expect that amid all these discour- 
aging circumstances, after this protracted career of guilt, a 
divine hand will be upon you to draw you back to the com- 
mencement of your journey ; to remove at once the fixedness 
of your sin. The Spirit of God, when it acts at all, operates 
in harmony with your own agency. '^ It doth persuade" you, 
while you can listen and ponder and understand. It presents 
truth to the eye, and it fixes the eye upon it. The more 
dimned has become the vision by sinful indulgence, the more 
difficult will be the conversion by the truth. Ah ! is there 
not such a thing as a total blindness even in this life, which 
no divine influence will cure. The spirit is kind and com- 
passionate ; it takes a long while to grieve him utterly away ; 
but he will not strive forever. When the soul as it were im- 
mures itself in dungeon walls, he will find some crevice to 
let in the light ; but when every aperture is closed, and the 
doors are barred and bolted with a strength that yields to no 
knocking, then sadly, indeed, but surely the Spirit takes his 
eternal flight. '^ There is a sin unto death." In every man's 
destination there is a limit bevond which if he cro, he is lost 
forever. Could you visit the abodes of despair, many a 
wretched one could point you to the moment in his history 
when for the last time he rejected the proffered aid, and sealed 
his own doom. Oh ! my hearers, who of you has reached 
this critical period ? Mighty in sin, mighty in strength to 
cope with the Mightiest of all, with eyes that can hardly see; 
with ears that can hardly hear ; with a heart that can hardly 
feel. Yet to-day, after so long a time, God comes to thee 
with a gentle voice. Hear you not the tenderness of his in- 
vitation as it falls upon your well nigh paralyzed sense ? See 
you not the beauty of his truth, as he holds it up to your almost 
blinded vision? Do not the repentings well nigh '' knidle 



360 IMMEDIATE REPENTANCE. 

together," even in your sluggish, death-stricken spirit? If 
you would rouse yourself to listen and to gaze, to love and to 
obey, this last mission might prove your spiritual birth-day. 
But if you still scorn and reject, you may not see him again 
till he is " laughing at your calamity," you may not hear him, 
till the sentence already determined is pronounced in your ear. 
I have thus set before you, my friends, the urgent claims 
of immediate repentance. I see not that as rational beings, 
you have any way of escape. In the former part of the dis- 
course you saw how promptly you would have acted in worldly 
concerns which called for your immediate exertion ; and now 
you see that the call of religious duty is infinitely louder and 
more pressing. Oh ! be not inconsistent. Deny not to the 
famishing soul that sustenance you bestow on the body. 
Take not from God the moments you give to man. Now 
you are able, abuse not the precious talent. Now rich is the 
prize held out to you, trample not the jewel beneath your feet. 
Shall I not add, now or never ! for who knows but the dark 
uncertainty of the future to which you leave yourselves may 
prove certain and eternal darkness to your souls ? The con- 
siderations here presented apply to the minutest divisions of 
time. You are not called upon to repent this year, this day, 
this hour, but this moment. Delay not an instant. Set not 
up points in the immediate future for action ; but now choose, 
resolve, do. Now say in your heart, I will be the Lord's, 
and now be the Lord's. 



NOTE. 

The preceding discourse was the second which Mr. Homer ever 
wrote, and was preached at Sherburne, Mass. in the afternoon of the 
first sabbatli on which he ever occupied the pulpit. " On that after- 
noon," as he writes to a friend, " 1 preached on immediate repentance, 
my plainest and homeliest sermon." It was afterwards preached at 
Boston, Salem-street church; at Durham, N. H.; and at South Ber- 
wick, May 3, 1840. 



ABSTRACTS AXD NOTES 



ov THE 



CLASSICS. 



31 



PREFATORY NOTE. 

The first of the following Articles is an Abstract or a condensed 
translation of the "Prolegomena in Homerum" by Richard Payne 
Knight, Esq. The second is an Analysis of " Die Erfindung der 
Buchstabenschrift," pp. 85 — 122; by J. Leonhard Hug, D. D. Prof, 
of Theol. at Freiburg. The third is an Abstract of a Treatise " Ueber 
das Zeitalter und Vaterland des Homer," by Dr. Bernhardt Thiersch, 
Principal of a Gymnasium at Halberstadt. The fourth is a condensed 
translation of "Demosthenes als Staatsmann und Redner," by Dr. 
Albert Gerhard Becker, preacher at Quedlinburg. The notes which 
are added are a small portion of Mr. Homer's extensive criticisms upon 
the Greek Classics. Both the translations and the notes were pre- 
pared merely for Mr. Homer's private use, and are now published with 
but plight attempts to correct them, and with no important alterations. 



ABSTRACTS AND NOTES. 



I. 



ABSTRACT OF R. P. KNIGHT S PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS 
UPON THE POEMS OF HOMER. 

1. The Doric invasion of the Peloponnesus occuiTed eighty 
years after the destruction of Troy. 

2. The Grecian Refugees went first to Boeotia and Attica, and 
afterwards to Asia. Here cities sprang up, and as the fruit of 
their rapid refinement, the Homeric Poems appeared. 

3. Nothing is known for a certainty concerning the author- 
ship of these poems. In the revival of letters six hundred years 
subsequent to the Doric invasion, the Greeks could arrive at no 
definite conclusions. 

4. It is now generally believed that Pisistratus first reduced 
to writing, and arranged the scattered fragments of the Iliad 
and Odyssey in their present order. But this belief is founded 
on an uncertain rumor first mentioned by Cicero,* and is ren- 
dered highly improbable from the circumstance that Herodotus, 
Thucydides, Plato and Aristotle make no mention of it. 

5. Another circumstance which has given rise to the belief, 
is the fact mentioned in the Socratic dialogue entitled Hippar- 
chus, that that prince or some of the family of Pisistratus first 
compelled the Rhapsodists at the Panathenaea to sing the rhap- 
sodies in their regular order, rather than in the confused manner 
to which they had been accustomed. 

6. Besides the Iliad and Odyssey, twenty minor poems were 
among the ancients attributed to Homer. 

7. But eminent among all were the Iliad and Odyssey refer- 
red to one distinguished poet of remote antiquity. There were 
not wanting those who doubted whether one poet was the au- 

^De Oratore, Lib. III. 



1 



364 knight's observations upon homer. 

thor of both, but none went so far as modern GermanSj to hold 
that they were both but a string of fragments from a large num- 
ber of poets. 

8. The opinion was first broached by Hedelin and Perrault, 
afterwards by Wolfe and Heyne, which last individual exceed- 
ed all his predecessors in the extravagance of his views. 

9. It would seem most astonishing, if that age could indeed 
produce so large a number of unequalled poets, and still more 
so that their productions could be strung together into such a 
harmonious whole. 

10. The supposition of a Universal Chance would be not 
more absurd, than that of such a fortuitous collection of frag- 
ments in Homer. 

11. As a fair specimen of the arguments of Heyne, take that 
which he derives from the aaTiidonoucx, the episode on the 
shield of xlchilles. He holds that its inappropriateness to the 
plan and spirit of the Iliad, its style, and the high order of 
the work described, all mark it as an interpolation, and the pro- 
duction of a later age. 

12. So might a grammarian of Alexandria, or a critic of 
Gottingen decide, accustomed to judge from the rules of criti- 
cism rather than from feeling and fact. 

13. Not so a poet, rude and simple in taste, and studious to 
please those more rude and simple than himself His natural 
process would be to avoid a continued and tedious narrative, and 
to intersperse his work with episodes like the aanidonoua. What 
matters it, if he makes the figures of the shield more suitable to 
Vulcan or Thetis than to the warlike xlchilles ? A discrepan- 
cy so delicate the hearer would neither censure nor perceive. 

14. He would be more particular in suiting the actions and 
words to each character, than the armor. 

15. Heyne's remark on the necessary priorit}- of sight to con- 
ception, is true only of simple and primary ideas, but is contra- 
dicted in his application of it by what every school boy knows 
of the history of ancient art. Phidias borrowed his Jove from 
the i)oet. 

16. It was nothing unnatural for the poet to attribute this 
wonderful and rapid workmanship to a god, nor did it become 
him to inquire into its modus. He studied to please. And so 
on another occasion, in the heat of the battle he sent Hector 
home to his mother. He could not have consulted fitness and 
probability here, but variety and pleasure. 

17. Comparing this Episode with some of the productions of 



KNIGHT'S OBSERVATIONS UPON HOMER, 865 

a later age, we see internal evidences of its superior antiquity. 
How different in grammar, language, manners and prosody from 
the Batrachoniyomachia. And there is evidence that it was 
older even than the Odyssey, as the material for the strings of 
the lyre, the entrails of oxen, spoken of in the Odyssey,* is more 
modern than the flax mentioned in the Hiad.f 

18. Some critics consider Odyssey XI. 5G4 — Q2Q an interpo- 
lation, because they confuse the narrative of the necromancy, 
and make Ulysses, instead of summoning the shades to himself, 
penetrate their abode. But the whole affair is involved in mys- 
tery, and Ulysses had before predicted his descent to Hell,J and 
afterwards boasted of it.§ 

19. Obscurity and confusion would add to the interest of the 
narration, and Virgil has as great incongruities, which might lead 
a critic to suspect whether different parts of his works were 
written by the same man, if his poems were more ancient than 
they are. 

20. Heyne has attempted to show from Pindar || that this pas- 
sage could not have been in the copies of the poet. But from 
the expression of the poet respecting Tantalus, it cannot be 
doubted that he had seen it. 

21. The antique beauty of the language in this passage, 
proves its genuineness, and as it attributes the bow and not the 
club to Hercules, it could not have been tlie production of a la- 
ter age. 

22. The ancients demanded congruity in describing the ob- 
jects of sense, but as to that which could be conceived only, 
they cared not for its congruity. Hence the obscurity and in- 
consistency of the descriptions of Olympus and Hades, and their 
inhabitants. 

23. A similar objection has been made to Ihad III. 121 — 244, 
the scene between Priam and Helen. It has been said to be 
improbable that the old chief for nine years had remained igno- 
rant of the countenances of the Grecian heroes. But the poet 
does not mind such trifles. 

24. Heyne also thought that the ctQKTiiloi of Diomed was an 
isolated fragment. He did not consider how connected with it 
were the subsequent events of the poem — the meeting of Hec- 
tor and Andromache — the wound of Paris — the rescue of Nes- 
tor — and the embassy to Achilles. Nor did he notice how ev- 

* Odyssey XXI. 408. t Iliad XVIII. 570. 

\ Odyssey X. 5(34. § Odyssey X. 12— *^1. 

II Olymp. I. 91. 

31* 



366 knight's observations upon homer. 

idently in his soldier-like demeanor in IIL 401 — 2, the poet 
was preparing us for his exploits in V. 1 — 310, and his speech 
in IX. 31—49. 

25. With regard to the duel between Hector and Ajax,* the 
critic's opinions are discrepant. At one time he says that it 
is a fragment, at another he accounts for the preservation of 
the heroes from its importance to the subsequent events. 

26. There is a similar discrepancy in the criticism on the 
tenth and eleventh books, where he finds evidence that the first 
verses are both the close of an old and the beginning of a new 
rhapsody. 

27. The tenth book must be considered as connected with 
the poem, because all its interest, its passions, its speeches, its 
allusions, etc. connect it so decidedly with the preceding. 

28. The circumstances of the age demand completeness in 
the poem. 

29. The eleventh book also cannot well be understood with- 
c ut considering its connection with the preceding, and is fraught 
vnih important consequences to the sequel. 

30. This book aids that admirable economy which Heyne 
commends in the fourteenth book, in bringing Patroclus to the 
tent of Eurypalus. 

31. The convocation on Mount Ida, following immediately 
upon the duel,f might be objected to on more probable grounds. 

32. It cannot be doubted that there have been interpolations, 
but they are to be detected by comparing them with the spirit 
and style of the original. The poems themselves are our chief 
source of evidence and judgment, and not the opinions of criti- 
icism or tradition. 

33. If we should admit that the poems were introduced in a 
fragmentary state into Greece, it would be no argument against 
their integrity in Asia. We have an account of a Massillian 
copy complete, in the Alexandrian library. Herodotus speaks 
as though the poems were complete. And it might be shown 
that many of the interpolations v/ere inserted for the express 
purpose of separating from one another originally connected 
rhapsodies, so that they might seem independent poems. 

34. Several other of tliose state copies are mentioned by the 
Alexandrian critics, which, as Villoison thinks, were edited by 
the several states. 

35. More probably, as Wolf thinks, they were the editions of 

* Iliad VII. 17. t Iliad VII. 34, 35. 



367 

private iiidividaals, with the names of the states to which they 
belonged affixed. 

36. To an advocate of the new theory it must be matter of 
surprise, that no Athenian edition worth mentioning was found 
in the Alexandrian library, and that Ptolemy, who purchased 
from the Athenians original copies of the tragedians at an enor- 
mous price, should show no desire to procin*e a copy of Ho- 
mer from those who first published it. 

37. Wolf attributes very much of the regularity and congru- 
ity of the Iliad to Aristarchus, while it is evident, as Heyne 
observes, that he understood neither the nature nor the prosody 
of the ancient tons^ue. 

CD 

38. Undoubtedly from the rareness and costliness of writing 
materials, a copy of the Iliad may not have existed previously 
to the age of Pisistratus. It would not be impossible that it 
should be preserved by oral tradition, amon^' a people who were 
polished, literary, and liberal patrons of the art of poetry. This 
indeed would not be so singular a phenomenon, as the preser- 
vation of the pretended Ossianic poems among a people like 
the Scotch. And it is not probable that the Aegyptians, who 
were better acquainted with the art of writing, would take 
pains to copy out works so uncongenial with their taste. 

39. The story of Plutarch, attributing to Lycurgus the intro- 
duction of a written copy of the poems into Greece, may 
be attributed to the partiality of the biographer for Lacedemon, 
and to his gross ignorance. 

40. The late commission to writing will account for the 
omission of the digamma, as the scribes would imagine it some 
obsolete sign of a semi-barbarous tongue, as remote from Ho- 
mer's elegance as their own. 

41. From the inspection of inscriptions and coins not much 
has as yet been done, but a wide field of research is open. 

42. Hesiod in his poems has left us certain expressions from 
which we may infer his country and age. Homer has not done 
this. We learn his antiquity to ])e greater than Ilesiod's, from 
the evident progression and refinement visible in the latter — 
the contraction of syllables, and the softening of sounds — (eli- 
dendo et molliendo articulationes). 

43. For this reason the Odyssey appears more modern than 
the Iliad. Its manners arc just as simple, but many of its 
words are more refined, and indicate a more advanced state of 
society. Xgrj^Kxra is here used for the more ancient y.jrji^aTci. 
Such words as Ud/rj, ^v^livog, onXov occur. OrjiEla from S^7]g 



368 knight's observations upon homer. 

is found, indicating a new order of society between slaves and 
nobles not mentioned in the Iliad. 

44. Other words in the Odyssey assume a shorter and more 
elegant form, nearer the Attic smoothness. Nc()vi\uog is used for 
vcopvjLivog, ^icFTiiq for d^Ednidioq^ a/QoTTjg for aygoLooirjQ, doato 
for dodaauTO, yqcdri and /Qt^vg for '/EQairj. 

45. There is no material difference in the syntax except 
that Inijv has the indicative mood in the Odyssey, but never 
in the Iliad. 

46. There is a difference in the mythology. In the Iliad no 
mention is made of 3Iercury as a messenger of the gods, of 
Neptune as trident bearer, nor Delos as an island sacred to 
Apollo, nor of consulting Apollo for oracles, nor of apotheosis. 

47. The arts and sciences also seem more advanced in the 
Odyssey than in the Iliad. The strings of the lyre are no lon- 
ger constructed of flax, but of the intestines of oxen, and the 
TiokXoip is added. Columns are added to the buildings in ap- 
proximation to the Doric style. The ocean is now first de- 
scribed as aijjogQov as if a more extensive navigation had made 
the discovery. The use of al/vjiLcov in bird catching, and 
dl'Aivot TiolvcoTid in fishing, are now first mentioned. 

48. Great accuracy is manifest in the Eiad in describing the 
localities, as if the poem was designed for those acquainted 
with them, and living in the vicinit3^ This is the more remark- 
able from the license manifest in other things. 

49. The poet of the Odyssey on the contrary drawls largely 
on his imagination for his localities, many of which are like the 
Liliput and Brobdignag of Dean Swift ; and the principal place 
described, Ithaca, was so limited and remote, that he might de- 
scribe it as he pleased without fear of contradiction. 

50. The vengeance on the maid-servant, etc. is very unlike 
the spirit of the Iliad. But inferior as the taste and spirit of 
the poem is, in these respects, it is eminently elegant in its ar- 
rangement, and polished in its style. 

51. Yet the same general rule is observed in both poems, 
accuracy in things known, license in things unknown. 

52. To deny the Trojan war like Bryant, is as absurd as to 
deny the discovery of America. 

53. None of the ancients denied the fact of the war of Troy, 
although few can suppose that the poet has given us the true 
origin and circumstances of this war, any more than Aristo- 
phanes has of the Peloponnesian war. 

54. The war commenced probably in state rivalry, and per- 



knight's observations upon homer. 369 

haps in a desire to recover ancestral possessions from the Tro- 
jans, but it was as disastrous to the conquerors as to the con- 
quered. 

55. Neither the Hiad nor the Odyssey contains any alhision 
to a symbolic or mystical religion. Yet coins dated eight or 
nine centuries before Christ have impressions of the symbols. 

56. No coins or letters are mentioned in the Iliad. 

57. 58 and 59 relate to coins. 

60. The definite article seems to have been used in the Iliad 
and Odyssey chiefly to accompany the action of the reciter^ 
who indicated by the article what was present in the action. 

61. Yet the ordinary usage of the article was ancient, as we 
see from the Latin words terra from jj] egcc and Turmes from 
jog eg^uiig. 

62. Hesiod probably lived at the end of the tenth century 
before Christ. The Odyssey was written one hundi'ed and the 
Eiad two hundred years before — at the time of the Ionic migra- 
tion, 

63. The glorious exploits of their ancestiy would be grateful 
to the exiles, and the sad results of their quarrels would furnish 
a profitable lesson. 

64. The overthrow of Peloponnesian cities is obscurely in- 
timated.* 

65. In no other way can we account for the long catalogue 
in the second book of the Iliad, than by the peculiar gratifica- 
tion it would afford to those just banished from the scenes de- 
scribed. 

66. If we are pointed to the didactic nature of Hesiod's works 
and days, we remark that an agricultural poem would be more 
interesting than a geographical one. 

67. The Iliad must then have been written between the 
eleventh and fifteenth centuries before Christ. Pseudo-Hero- 
dotus dates it six hundred and twenty-two years before Xer- 
xes' expedition, 1102 B. C. Two emigrations are spoken of 
by chronographers ; one, 1124 B. C, of the Aeolians, and another, 
1404 B. C, of the lonians. But Homer does not recognize 
this distinction of tribes. 

68. The Dorians and the sons of Hercules their leaders who 
made the incursion, Homer does not mention, as if anxious to 
deprive his country's enemies of the glory of participating in 
the Trojan war, and Tlepolemus son of Hercules is an obscure 
prince, and killed first of the Greeks. 

^ Iliad IV. 51—56. 



370 knight's observations upon homer, 

69. The Doric language was a barbarous rebc of the Lace- 
demonian — different from the Doric dialect, subsequently com- 
piled from various sources for poetic use. The Aeolians and 
lonians used one and the same dialect until after the disper- 
sion, when it was variously corrupted. There were four va- 
rieties in the age of Herodotus. 

70. Of all the dialects the Attic was the most refined and 
elegant, and the most remote from the simplicity of the origi- 
nal, though its elegance has given it the authority of an original. 

71. The true original is the Homeric dialect, which was not 
compiled, as ancient grammarians supposed, from various dia- 
lects, but was the spoken language of the day. 

72. At the time when the poems were committed to writing, 
this dialect had gone out of use, and the copyists, not distin- 
guished for their cultivation of the antique, often varied the lan- 
guage to suit their own modern taste. 

73. At that early period the metrical form was used to aid 
the memory, and the recitations of the rhapsodist took the place 
of books. The muses were represented as the daughters of 
Memory, and the poet invokes them as such in his catalogue of 
ships. 

74. The custom'of having an aoidog attached to each distin- 
guished family circle, is evident from the Homeric poems ; and 
the more distinguished of these minstrels not content with pri- 
vate patronage traveled from land to land. This was the prac- 
tice of Homer. 

75. Hence the general cultivation and elegance of the popu- 
lar dialect. 

76. Eloquence too, from the very simplicity of the age, and 
from the fact that everything was done by speech, was much 
cultivated. 

77. There can be no doubt that poets existed before the pe- 
riod of Homer ; although they were entirely eclipsed by him, 
and the extant productions attributed to them are spurious. 

78. Everything is uncertain relative to the origin of the 
Greek alphabet. We have nothing relative to Cadmus and the 
Cadmeans. The probability is, that Cadmus was the same as 
Camilus or Cadmilus, a surname of 3Iercury.* 

79. No mention is made in Homer of Palamedes. No con- 
fidence is to be placed in the common impression that the "lit- 
erae vocales duplicae" were not invented until the year 393 B. C. 
as the description of those letters in Euripides and Callias, and 

^ Apollon. Rhod. I. 917. 



knight's observations upon homer. 371 

upon coins of the fifth or sixth century before Christ prove an 
eai'lier origin. 

80. In the fifth century before Christ, when the Greeks be- 
gan to write prose histories, tlie Ionic dialect was in its vigor. 
Accordingly Herodotus wrote in it. 

81. Owing however to the universal superiority of Athens, 
the Attic dialect subsequently became the prominent one, the 
one most cultivated by foreigners, and looked upon as the com- 
mon language of Greece. 

82. At this time the Alexandrian grammarians conjmenced 
their operations on Honjer— discovering and collating old man- 
uscripts. Zenodotus, first Librarian, edited a new edition on 
the basis of their labors, in the reign of Ptolemy 11. 

83. Under Ptolemy V, appeared the edition of Aristophanes, 
and under Ptolemy VII, in the second century before Christ, 
the celebrated one of Aristarchus. the basis of all subsequent 
editions. 

84. The great fault of the Alexandrian critics was that they 
did not ascertain the true sources of the old Greek, nor culti- 
vate an acquaintance with tJiose foreign languages which con- 
tained its elements, but erased whatever was contrary to their 
own style of speaking. 

85. Bentley and his successors did well to restore the digam- 
ma, but they erred in not extending their labors to other emen- 
dations in the orthography, as the digamma alone creates dis- 
proportion. 

86. Priscianus makes the Aeolian digamma, a prefix of jB to 
words commencing with P, as BP'HrflP for "PHTP^P. But it 
is evident also that there was a custom of writing AF for AB 
and AT, 

87. The digamma was called Aeolian, because it continued 
to be used by that tribe after it had fallen into disuse elsewhere ; 
but there is conclusive evidence that it was used anciently by 
both Dorians and lonians. 

88. The accents were invented two himdred years before 
Christ, by Aristophanes a Byzantian grammarian, to teach the 
pronunciation of the more modern dialect to foreigners. 

89. It is difficult to give the precise force of accents in pro- 
nunciation. The modulation indicated by them is of so deli- 
cate a character, that many disputes have arisen resj)ccting ir. 
Hermann makes the acute accent a sign of emphasis, and the 
gi'ave a sign of no emphasis ; but lie is inconsistent with his own 
theory. 



372 knight's observations upon homer. 

90. The ancient languages, especially the Greek, as tliey ap- 
proached nearer to nature, were more melodious in tone than 
the modern. 

91. The peculiar beauty of the Homeric dialect was thought 
to be essential to epic poetry, and was imitated by others who 
followed, yet in so bungling a manner as often to obscure the 
sense and destroy the harmony of their compositions. 

92. It can be shown that epenthesis and metathesis, etc. are 
mere inventions of the grammarians, and did not exist in the 
Homeric age. 

93. The Homeric language was, it is true, an advanced state 
of the Greek, but from the lack of more ancient monuments, 
we cannot measure the advancement. Yet we cannot suppose 
the words to have been modified by arbitrary changes, but ra- 
ther, in order to be universally understood, to have been the 
words used in common life. 

94. The Alexandrian doctrine, which makes the contract 
form the primitive one, and derives, for example, ao^M from 
(7w, and ^olo) from /Sw, is no more proper, than to make the 
latin words mavolo and mevolo from malo and nolo, by epen- 
thesis of vo. 

95. 96. In the ancient language all words seem to have re- 
ceived an augment in the second case, either by the addition of 
a new syllable or the division of an old one. Example, acofioi 
(TCtifj^aTog, TQiTjorjg TQirjgeog. And all nouns in ig anciently made 
this termination in rog, but they gradually softened down into 
7}og. This last termination is an invention of the gramma- 
rians. 

97. The contracted syllable can be resolved only into its 
original elements — 8l and ov into sa or ££, and ao or so, not into 
e'i and ov. So xouTog is resolved into mxQaxog, and not into 
Kowaro?, etc. 

98. Nouns ending in ig have their accusative in iba or iv. 
The IV comes in this way: -idhv -idav -idv -iv. The ending of 
latin genitives in is, results from a modern Ibjiaaciifiog. For- 
merly it was Venerus instead of Veneris. 

99. So from this Icjiaxi^auog they write Mithridatis instead of 
Mithridates ; and the modern Greeks make tj, v, h, oi^ vi the 
same in pronunciation as l, 

100. Aspirated letters or gutturals were frequently inter- 
changed for each other, as o- and q, h and F, musasum and 
musarum, (xovaaFcjv and fiovadf mv. 

101. Afterwards this was expressed simply by a period, 



HUG ON THE UNITY OF THE ILIAD. 373 

lUOL'cra.wv, etc. The Etruscans knew not the letter o. They 
wrote for gnaros, gnarures ; hence the latin genitive gnarorum, 
10*2. It has always been difficult to explain the genitive ter- 
mination OLQ. Some refer it to tiie Thessalian, others to the 
Boeotian dialect. But without doubt the F was used in singular 
as well as in plural words, and the dot which designated its ab- 
sence would be changed into t. 

103. Thus XoyoFo -Xo/o.o -Xo/oto. The genitive oto never 
occurs except where the o is short by position as well as by 
nature, which indicates that oi was originally short. 

104. Patronymics and verbals in oc, «, 7]g have one origin.. 
The genitives aog, sog^ ao, eo all come from aFoq. 

105. Nouns in evg or iFg in Homer, retain in the oblique 
cases the original mode, no contraction occurring except in the 
dative plural. 

106. Patronymics in udrig and Eidag in Pindar, etc. appear 
x«T« diadiiAdLv in consequence of the digamma. 

107. Nouns in vg and i;, formerly made their genitive in vFog, 
Hence questuvis d.nd fruciuvis for questihiis and frudibits. 

108. Hence also sibi, tibi, nobis, vobis. So ubi from / aFi, 

109. T and l are often interchanged for each other. In de- 
clining nouns in vg, the Attics made €w^ for vog ; hence tog. 

110. Masculine adjectives in vg making their genitive in vog, 
made then- feminine in via and eux — £« and sv being an Attic 
refinement 



n. 

ANALYSIS OF HUG's ARGUMENT RESPECTING THE KNOWLEDGE 
AND USE OF LETTER-WRITING BY HOMER, AND THE UNITY 
OF THE ILIAD. 

The shield of Achilles, the cup of Nestor, and the shield of 
Agamemnon seem to prove a knowledge of the arts of design 
in the heroic age. But as writing was no more used than 
among the knights of the middle ages, little or no allusion is 
made to it throughout the })oems. Rousseau's use of this fact 
in the Odyssey, to show that the possibility of an epistolary cor- 
respondence between Ulysses and his wife would destroy the 
story, loses all its plausibility when we remember that the ar- 
32 



374 HUG ox THE UNITY OF THE ILIAD, 

rangements of Calypso's post office department may not have 
been very perfect, and a verbal message by the mail carrier 
might have been as useful as a letter. 

The Gi]uatci Uyoa,'^ even if they do not prove a knowledge of 
writing, prove, 1. A preparation for such an art, two generations 
before the Trojan war, which renders its speedy introduction 
highly probable, and 2. The existence of writing materials which 
might have been employed as well in writing as in marking, 
and as well in great works as in small. This fact evinces a 
dawn of the art, and it is very natural to suppose that Grecians 
who traveled in Eg}"pt or Phenicia before Homer, or at least 
Homer himself, should have perfected the art. 

Whatever may be said of the preservation in the memory of 
songs such as would naturally fix themselves in the mind, it is 
difficult to conceive how a })urely statistical document, like the 
catalogue of ships, could be either composed or transmitted to 
posterity without the aid of writing. That it has been accurate- 
ly preserved we may learn from the fact, that it has several 
times been referred to, to settle boundaries.! Such a document 
would be valued only by statesmen and geographers of subse- 
quent ages, and would not possess that share of popular favor, 
which would occasion its frequent and general recitation. The 
laws which enjoined the commission of it to njemory did not 
exist until the age of Solon, and while they fail to account for 
its original preservation, were particularly designed to preserve 
it from manuscript interpolation. At the same time, from the 
great difficulty attending the art at its dawn, and from the rare- 
ness and costliness of manuscripts so late as the time of Plato 
and Aristotle, it is reasonable to infer that no more of the Iliad 
was written out than was absohitely necessary. Oral tradition 
was no doubt at first the chief means of preservation. There 
were probably more who committed single rhapsodies to memo- 
ry, than there were who committed the whole, and the more 
diffused was the knowledge of the art of writing, the less fre- 
quent was the commission of anything more than particular 
passages. The rhapsodists probably confined themselves to the 
most popular parts, until compelled by law to recite the whole. 
Such were the disjecta membra which Pisistratus was to reduce 
to order, and they must have been scattered fragments of single 
original poems, and not individual songs collected together to 

* Odyssey, B. VI. 

t Aristot. Rhet. Lib. I. c. 15. Eustath. in Horn. T. I. p. 263. 



HUG ON THE UXITY OF THE ILIAD. 375 

frame two great poems, as will appear from an examination of 
the Iliad. 

The theme announcecl by the poet, Achilles' wrath, does not 
necessarily confine him to that one event, bat includes also the 
appeasement of his anger with its attendant circumstances. 
The poet makes this simple annoimcement of his subject, be- 
cause be takes it for granted that it will be understood as com- 
prehending all. The fact that the stor\' seems to be sung rather 
than wrinen, is no proof of the poet's ignorance of writing. It 
is one peculiar art of the poet to conceal from his readers the 
pains he has taken in writing and rewriting his pertbrmance. 
Episodes apparently unnecessar\- to the entireness of the plot, 
tiimish no argument against the unity of the composition. 
What is necessary is not the scale by which to judge of a poem. 
The genius of the poet, and his regard for the taste of his hear- 
ers, might lead him to introduce much that is not strictly neces- 
sary to tlie plan proposed. 

An analysis of the structure of the poem will conhrm its uni- 
tj. It might at first view be supposed that the catalogue of the 
ships would be as appropriate to any other epic of the war of 
Troy as the Diad. But we find in the midst of it,* a description 
of Achilles r -y appropriate to the subject proposed for 

the Diad, ati . ^ feet accordance with its design, and this 
passage marks the catalogue as a part of the same poem. It is 
often said, that the account of the duel between Paris and Meni- 
lausf is of itself a complete rhapsody. But this duel is a pre- 
paration for a general contest to be afterwards described, and is 
alluded to in the next book, and in subsequent parts of the Iliad, 
in a manner that proves it to have been an essential pan of the 
entire poem.1 The battle described in the fourth and fit\h 
books may be said to have no peculiar fitness to the action of 
the Iliad, but to be anv one among the manv skirmishes which 
occiured during the war of Troy. But it is most intimately 
connected with the events of the preceding book from which it 
du-ecily resulted ; and besides Apollo appeals to Achilles' angry 
retirement from the field in order to encourage the fleeing Tro- 
jans to rally.§ A similar allusion to the present condition of 
Achilles reanimates the Grecians when they have become dis- 
heanened.j( In this way the poet is constantly exhibiting his 
design, and the connection between the various parts is so in- 
timate that one could not be omitted without another. 

" B. II. 6S.3. f B. III. : B. IV. loo, '2:^5, -W. B. VII. 351 
§ 3 IV. 509. il B. V. 787. 



376 HUG ON THE UNITY OF THE ILIAD. 

The sixth book, which relates the visit of Hector to Troy and 
his parting with Andromache, possesses in itself great interest, 
even when considered apart from the rest of the poem. But 
it cannot be separated from it ; for 1. It has a most intimate 
connection with what precedes. It is the fact that Minerva is 
aiding the Greeks which brings Hector to Troy in order to en- 
duce the matrons to appease the goddess. Q. It has a most 
intimate connection with wliat follows. In fact it gives an in- 
tirely new turn to the action. Minerva is appeased, and through 
her instrumentality a single combat between Hector and Ajax 
is determined on. 3. Ajax alludes to the wrath of Achilles,'* 
and shows that the poet still keeps his eye on that circumstance. 
In the eighth book, Jupiter forbids the gods to interfere with 
the combat, takes it into his own hands, and this for the ex- 
press purpose of avenging the wrongs of Achilles.f The ninth 
book presents the ineffectual effort to reconcile Achilles. The 
tenth, relating the night-adventures of Ulysses and Diomed, has 
been generally supposed to be an interpolation.]: No doubt it 
possesses in itself an interest and a completeness amply suffi- 
cient. But 1. The unfortunate occurrences of the preceding 
day rendered the restlessness attributed to the heroes, and the 
plan devised by them for ascertaining the projects of the enemy, 
in the highest degree natural and probable. 2. The time is 
most exactly matched to the preceding book. 3. The conver- 
sation among the heroes appertains to the events of the prece- 
ding book, and their position is described with reference to it. 
4. In the battle of the following day Diomed takes no part un- 
til he has had time to rest from the fatigue of his nocturnal 
adventure. 5. In this book also, the poet refers to the angry 
Achilles.§ The eleventh book relates the more fearful events 
which followed, and the night-scene furnishes suitable relief 
from the too rapid succession of horrors. It is now, in conse- 
quence of the dreadful ravages of Hector, that Patroclus is sent 
out by Achilles to reconnoitre, and is urged by Nestor to call 
his master to batde. The twelfth book continues the rav- 
ages of Hector, nor can any one doubt the connection of this 
with the poet's design, or the present direction of matters to- 
ward an issue. At this critical moment we might expect 
Achilles to appear for the salvation of the ships. But the poet 
has other designs in view and relieves us by a happy and un- 

^ B. VII. 226. t B. VIII. 370—409. 

I Eusth. II. 785. § B. X. 103. 



HUG OX THE rXlTY OF THE ILIAD. 377 

expected turn. Jupiter as if disgusted turns his eyes to more 
congenial subjects, and tiie eager divinities avail themselves of 
his inattention to aid the Greeks. This is the subject of the 
thirteentli book. The anger of Achilles is here again referred 
to.* In book fourteenth, the Trojans retreat. Neptune orders 
the Greeks to pursue them, and Juno puts Jove to sleep. All 
this takes place that Achilles may not too wildly exidt.f Hec- 
tor falls. We anticipate the imjiiediate destruction of the city, 
now that its main bulwark is disabled. But the poet by an- 
other turn in the fifteenth book, puts off the issue. Jupiter 
awakes, and sends Apollo to reanimate Hector. The Trojans 
are revived. Here also we have two allusions to the wrath of 
Achilles.J In the sixteenth book Patroclus is sent out in the 
armor of Achilles, and repels the Trojans, but is slain and 
spoiled. In the following book occurs the contest for the body 
of Patroclus, and news of his death is sent to Achilles. 

Wolf has suggested^ that the Iliad should terminate with the 
death of Patroclus. This event certainly furnishes a sequel to 
a portion of the story, vrhich might lead those who doubted its 
unity to ascribe what follows to another hand. The subject 
proposed would necessarily require no more, now that the 
Greeks are so thoroughly humbled. But that the poem can- 
not here terminate will appear from the following considera- 
tions : 1. A Greek would not thus terminate the story while 
everything was so disadvantageous to his countrymen, but would 
rather have found an end in the ninth book, where, if his sim- 
ple object were a close adherence to the theme proposed, an 
ample satisfaction would have been given. But the hero of 
the poem has not yet been so prominent as the subject would 
seem to demand. He has appeared in person but twice. || By 
concluding the poem here we shut out those portions where 
he is a prominent actor. 2. Should such a poem in seventeen 
books be found among the rubbisii of antiquity, with the whole 
of the first book, half of the second, and half of the ninth de- 
faced and illegible, the reader would at once conclude that it 
was an epic poem designed to relate the victories of Hector. 
Should he be informed that Hector was but the second hero, 
he would necessarily anticipate a large portion to follow which 
would bring into notice some rival of Hector's. 3. Such a 

* B. XIII. 345. t B. XIV. 139— 365. 

t B. XV. 400, 595. § Wolfs Proleo-om. in Hoin. p. 118. 

II Bs. IX. and XVI. 

32* 



378 HUG ON THE UNITY OF THE ILIAD. 

poein would also be wantiDg in proportioD. The sequel would 
prove utterly inadequate to the preparations, and would fail to 
satisfy tlie mind with regard to the object kept constantly be- 
fore it, the appeasement of Achilles. 4. It is exceedingly im- 
probable that a poet addressing himself to the sympathies of 
the Greeks w^ould thus engulph the interests of the nation in 
those of his hero, especially as in the sequel there is no change, 
and Achilles does not becom.e again the joy and the pride of 
Greece. 5. If the poem closed with the seventeenth book, the 
hero only appears ridiculous. The wliole machinery is set in 
motion to accomplish his purposes of vengeance, but in the end 
he loses his armor and his friend. Rather than a heroic poem, 
this would be a sermon on the folly of revenge. 6. In such a 
poem we should be left in doubt whether Achilles were recon- 
ciled and satisfied, although it would be evident that he had 
more cause than ever for anger in the loss of his friend. So 
the poet views it, and in the remainder, the revenge of the he- 
ro assumes a new form, acting in concert with the Greeks and 
against their enemies. 7. The splendid oflTers refused by Achil- 
les in book ninth lead us to anticipate a still more brilliant sat- 
isfaction and appeasement of his anger. If the poet leaves him 
now, he treats him like an ugly child, who because dissatisfied 
witli what is oflfered gains in the end nothing at all. 8. Achil- 
les is the hero of the poem, and the grand object of the poet is 
to exalt and ennoble him. It is unnatural then to leave him 
just as the circumstances are such as to draw him out, and ex- 
hibit his chai'acter to advantage. 9. The nature of the Epic 
requires an active hero. A Hercules or Alexander at rest would 
form good subjects for painting or statuary, but not for history 
or epic poetry. We naturally expect Achilles to become active 
before the close of the poem. 10. The poet himself gives ex- 
press predictions of such a change in his hero.* 

The poet has not skillfully brought his hero into circum- 
stances which will call him out to advantage. The circumstance 
that his armor is in the possession of Hector, gives his mind a 
definite object of pursuit. In regaining that, he avenges his 
friend by slaying Hector ; and in slaying Hector, he assumes a 
prominence proper to his rank as hero of the poem. If it be 
said that the twenty-third and twenty-fourth books are super- 
fluous, we must consider that the funeral rites of Patroclus 
seem to be required by the spirit of the age. And moreover 

^ B II. Gl)4. B. Vlll. 474. B. X. 105. 



THIERSCH ON THE AGE OF HOMER. 379 

the preceding iDcidents of the poem, the resen'ation of tlie 
victims of slaughter to deck the funeral pile, and the sympathy 
which the poet takes pains to excite for the loss of Patroclus, 
require this full and splendid description of his burial. The 
twenty-fourth book is important as it seems to consummate the 
gloiy of the hero by placing Pnam at his feet, and developing 
so fully the finer feelings of heroism. The first and second 
parts of the poem have thus a similar termination. His ven- 
geance on the Greeks ends in a magnanimous refusal of their 
presents. His vengeance on the Trojans in a restoration of the 
body of his foe, and a liberal ahowance of time for the funeral 
rites. 

Aristotle then has not erred when he praised the perfect 
miity of the Iliad. The very proposition of the poet (sein grund- 
satz) is a head of 3Iedusa which tm*ns to stone every audacious 
hand that would rob him of a single book. It is incredible that 
a poem at once so unique and so complete, so admirable in its 
construction, so perfect in its minutest details should have been 
produced without any aid from writing. It would be a mira- 
cle. To this art then is Homer indebted for his superiority 
over all predecessors. 



TIL 



ABSTRACT OF DR. THIERSCH S TREATISE OX THE AGE AND XA 
TIVE COUNTRY OF HOMER. 

Proposition. The Homeric Poems appeared in European 
Greece immediately after the Trojan war. 

L The Age. 

The precise period of the Trojan war cannot be ascertained. 
Computations vary from 1284 to 1J84 B. C. 

Ancient writers dificn* much about the age of Homer. Ac- 
cording to the Ai'undelian Marbles he flourished 277 years after 
the Trojan war, or 900 B. C. The calculation given in the life 
of Homer attributed to Herodotus, is not only inconsistent 
with that given in Herodotus' history, but with itself. It 
puts Homer 1G8 years after the Trojan war, and G22 years be- 



380 THIERSCH ON THE AGE 

fore Xerxes crossed the Hellespont, Avliich event occured 480 
B. C. This of course drives us from the previous calculation 
respecting the time of the Trojan war 1184 to 1270 B. C. 
The circumstances of the narrative, and the character of the po- 
etry it contains, prove that it is one of the Cychc poets and not 
the true Homer whose life is here given. Plutarch, in his life 
mentions three opinions ; one making Homer coeval with the 
Trojan war, another 100 years later, and another 150. Gellius 
makes him contemporary with Solon and Hesiod, Cornelius 
Nepos 160 years before Rome — 900 B. C. Cicero is quite self- 
contradictory in his various conjectures on the subject. Ma- 
dame Dacier puts Homer 300 years after the Trojan war. Payne 
and Knight make him coeval with the Ionian migration. Mitford 
puts Homer four generations after the Trojan war. Dodwell 
considers him a son of Telemachus. Wood makes different 
calculations. Wolf dates his time at 1000 B. C. Schubart 
places him in the court of the Aeneades. 

The opinion that Homer lived after the Ionian migration has 
little foundation. 1. Its prevalence among the Ancients is ea- 
sily accounted for, as the poems, being found among the islands 
of Asia, would not naturally be referred to a European origin. 
2. Various incidents mentioned in the Iliad and Odyssey, par- 
ticularly the appearance of bards at feasts in the latter, and the 
analogies of other lands, indicate the age of heroes and bards 
to be the same. 3. The omission, except in a single instance, 
of all allusion to the death of Ulysses, and the manner in which 
the history of Agamemnon's family is related, no mention being 
made of the fate of Orestes, intimate that the poet was nearly 
contemporary with his heroes. 4. If it be said that the poet 
transfers himself for the time being to the age of which he 
writes, and makes his heroes speak consistently, it may be re- 
plied that this is a stroke of art too great for the simplicity of 
the poet of a childlike age. 5. The song of the votnoq^ relating 
the return of the heroes from Troy, is spoken of* as if it rela- 
ted to recent incidents. 6. From the Iliad and Odyssey it ap- 
pears that there were bards contemporaneous with the heroes. 
Now it is unreasonable to suppose that the succession of bards 
was interrupted for two hundred years. It is impossible that 
the events of the heroic age could have been preserved with- 
out song. And tlie circumstances of the period immediately 
after the return from Troy, with the ease and luxury in which the 

* Odyssey I. 352. 



AND NATIVE COUNTRY OF HOMER. 381 

heroes live, point to that as the most favorable period for these 
poets to flourish. 7. They must have appeared during the 
peaceful period of eightj^ years that elapsed between the Trojan 
war and the Doric invasion of Peloponnesus. 8. In proof of 
this, the freshness of the descriptions, and the lifesomeness of the 
scenes in the poems may be appealed to. These traits could 
not have been so prominent a century after the events related, 
when their impression must in a measure have worn away. 9. 
Especially would tJie circumstances of the Ionian migration have 
crowded from tlie memory, and from the mouth, the events of 
Troy, as oral tradition continues fresh only till the next wonder- 
ful event supplants it. 10. Nor can we imagine that a poet who 
wrote in the simplicity and artlessness of so early a period could 
draw a sketch of the past without betraying his own more re- 
cent age, by blending its features with the outlines of the pic- 
ture. 11. No mention is made of the important events which 
occurred during the long interval between the Trojan war, and 
the Ionian migration, events which the communicative disposi- 
tion of the poet would incline him to mention, as he does the 
heroes of the ante-heroic age. 

If it be said in opposition to this view, that true epic poetry 
always selects distant and fabulous antiquity instead of seeking 
inspiration from the present time, we reply, that it is the artifi- 
cial Epopoea of more modern times from Virgil to Klopstock 
which sings of antiquity. Not so the Homeric and Ossianic 
poems. The true theory is, that the infancy of a nation is its 
original epic age. Again, if appeal be made to II. V. 304, olai 
vvv ^QOToly we reply, there is reason to believe that this passage 
is the interpolation of some rhapsodist. 1. Because it is unlike 
Homer who nowhere speaks of his heroes as giants. 2. The in- 
terpolation might naturally have been invented by a later rhap- 
sodist to remove the strangeness of this sort of warfare. 3. 
There are several passages* which would require the same 
qualification, in which it seems to be omitted owing to the diffi- 
culty of making it harmonize. 4. The etymology of the word 
/8Qixadeov throws suspicion on the passage. And if we are re- 
ferred to the poet's appeal to the muses for aid in giving the cata- 
logue of the ships, we reply, 1. That we cannot suppose the po- 
et to be so superstitious as really to de[)end on such aid for re- 
calling distant and forgotten events to mind. 2. Several critics 
attribute this passage to a later age, and consider it an interpo- 
lation. 

Mliad VII.264. 



382 THIERSCH ON THE AGE 



H. The Cou>'TRr 



Our view of this follows from the preceding, yet both raay 
be confirmed by noticing some independent proofs. 

There are numerous hostile theories relative to Homer's 
countr3\ 

1. Bryant makes his native place Ithaca, in proof of which 
he relies chiefly on the poet's love for Ithaca. The critic con- 
foimds the poet and his hero. 

2. Schubart makes Homer a Trojan, and proves it from the 
superior polish and character given to the Trojans. He ap- 
peals to the pedigree of Dardanus,* which is more extended 
than that of any Grecian hero. But that passage is an inter- 
polation, and if it were not, the pedigree might be given, as 
more interesting because more unknown to the Greeks than 
their own. The same kind of reasoning would prove Homer 
to be a Phenician.f Against this theory it may be further re- 
marked that Homer makes no effort in describing the Trojan 
character. His more prominent and distinct characters are all 
Grecians, while between one Trojan and another there is little 
distinction. With the geography of Greece Homer seems to 
be accurately familiar, but appears ignorant and self-contra- 
dictory with respect to Troy. Moreover Homer represents 
Grecian warriors as superior in military art, and Grecian wo- 
men in dress. The aggrandizement of the Grecian name was 
the chief motive for the faithful transmission of the poems. 
And if the poet had wished to depreciate them, materials were 
at hand which he has not used. 

3. The more general opinion is that Asia, either Ionia or 
Aeolia was the land where first appeared the Homeric poems. 

The circumstances of the contention upon this subject among 
the Ionian States, generally appealed to by the Asiatic party is 
rather an argument against them, as it shows that they could 
never come to any agreement. The long preservation of par- 
ticular rhapsodies among them would account for the common 
claim. The evidence of an Ionian origin drawn by Wood from 
the winds described as blowing on the Asiatic shore, is not de- 
cisive. The poet would speak of the winds as if he were on 
the shore, whatever might be his situation. Iliad II. 535 is an- 
other Asiatic passage Avliere the poet speaks of the Locrians as 

^ Iliad XX. 21G. t Odyssey VIL 56. 



AND NATIVE COUNTRY OF HOMER. 383 

dwelling on the other side of Eiiboea. But this passage is pro- 
nounced by Knight to be an interpolation. II. II. 626, contain- 
ing a similar proof, is shown to be spurious by the unlionieric 
use of vatcf) for vaiEjacj, If these passages w^ere genuine they 
would only prove the Asiatic and separate origin of the Cata- 
logue of ships which appears evident from the inconsistency of 
the statistics with other parts of Homer. Each ship is made 
to contain 120 men, horses, etc., though elsewhere described as 
small enough to be dragged on shore like a boat. The cata- 
logue would also be more interesting and useful to Asiatic col- 
onists than native Greeks.* 

Against the Asiatic origin it may be remarked, 1. That Ho- 
mer makes no mention of Smyrna, his reputed birth-place, or 
of the river 3Ieles, from which he is called 3Ie]esigenes. He 
makes no mention of the Ionian States, and the Aeolian and 
Phrygian States in iVsia he seems to know only by report. On 
the contrar}^ in all his descriptions of European Greece, he is 
evidently at home.f 2. The monarchical sentiments found in 
various passages^ would hardly proceed from an Ionian Repub- 
lican. 3. The common supposition that Homer acquired his 
intimate knowledge of Greece by travels, is rendered improba- 
ble, when we consider how difficult communication between 
the two countries w^as rendered by the distractions of the age. 
4. There are several passages w^hich could come only from a 
European Greek. He makes the sun rise and set in the ocean, 
whereas an Asiatic Greek would make it rise from behind 
wooded mountains, as his east was diy land. 5. In II. XII. 239, 
^ocpog refers undoubtedly to unexplored regions in the north- 
w^est of Europe. But an inhabitant of Asia could not so use it, 
but must refer it to Greece his west, which would be extreme- 
ly unnatural. 6. It ought not to be objected to this view that 
it is destitute of historical support, since the traditions of that 
period are themselves unsupported, and it is easy to account 
for their discrepancy with it. 

* Knight's Prolegom. p. 64. t Strabo, B. VII. p. 457. 

X Iliad II. 203. Odyss. XV. 402. 



384 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 



IV. 

Becker's observations on demosthenes as a statesman 

and an orator. 

Biographies of Demosthenes, 

I. Contemporary writers. 

Of these only some fragments remain, collected in Plutarch's 
Life. 

The orations of Demosthenes may be referred to, particular- 
ly the XoyoL inngonLxol respecting his youth, and the Philip- 
pics, the De falsa leg. and the De Corona concerning his po- 
litical life. 

II. Subsequent writers. 

1. Plutarch's Life is valuable, as he cites for his authorities 
the original biographers, particularly Theopompus. Theopom- 
pus is not very credible authority, and Plutarch himself from 
his credulity and his partiality for the Thebans, is not a satis- 
factory biographer. 2. Life of Demosthenes, or the Lives of 
the ten Orators. This is ascribed by Taylor and Rhunken to 
Plutarch. It is a confused and unimportant compilation. 3. 
Lucian's Eulogy on Demosthenes. This does not contain many 
particulars of his life, but is a beautiful and merited tribute to 
his character. 4. Life of Demosthenes by Libanius. This 
work comprises only that portion of his life, which is necessa- 
ry for the understanding of his first political speeches. 5. Life 
of Demosthenes by Zosimus. It contains nothing new and is 
remarkable only as the production of a rhetorician^ who makes 
Demosthenes to have been his ow^n rhetorical teacher. 6. His 
life by Suidas is an unimportant compilation. 

Upon the rhetorical merits of Demosthenes the world have 
been united in admiration, but different views have been taken 
of his character as a man and a statesman. 

The father of Demosthenes, was Demosthenes a reputable 
and opulent manufacturer of Athens. His mother was Cleo- 
bula, daughter of Gylon an exile in Scythia. Dionysius makes 
the year of his birth the fourth of the ninety-ninth Olympiad. 
But the date given by Plutarch, the fourth year of the ninety- 
eighth Olympiad, accords better with subsequent dates with 



BECKER OX DEMOSTHENES. 385 

^vhich we are acquainted. The oration against Midias, pro- 
nounced in the thirty-second year of his age is dated Olympiad 
107. 4. The year of his death, ni the sixty-third of his hfe, is 
made to be Olympiad 114. 3. His father died when he was 
seven years old, leaving also a daughter five years of age, and 
a A^idow. His property he left in the hands of administrators 
who conducted themselves so fraudulently that Demosthenes 
at the arrival of his seniority, (at the age of eighteen.) found 
himself possessed of seventy minas instead of thirty talents, his 
rightful due. What was worse, his guardians for their own 
gi'eater security- had entirely neglected his education. But as- 
soon as his name was enrolled as a citizen, he commenced a 
prosecution. The case continued in court four years, when he 
succeeded in obtaining a verdict of ten talents against Apho- 
bus. But the advantage in mental discipline thus derived, was 
far greater than this pittance of his father's property. His stu- 
dies preparatory for the legal suit formed his taste for oratory, 
and had an impoitant influence on his future destination. 

Demosthenes doubtless attended the instructions of Plato, 
nosv lecturing in his old age at the Academy. The instructions 
of Isocrates, although the most celebrated, were too costly for 
his limited means, and he was obliged to select for his teacher 
Isaeus, using the notes on Isocrates which he borrowed from a 
friend. Isaeus had a great reputation as a barrister, and besides 
fitting Demosthenes for his immediate work, proved for him a 
severer and more profitable model than he could have found in 
the polished but pointless periods of Isocrates. 

Demosthenes studied the authors of Greece. His particular 
favorite was Thucydides, rather from the congeniality of his 
spirit than from the standard character of his style. 

But the defective and uneducated state of his i)hysical system 
seemed to preclude the possibility of liis rising beyond a certain 
limit. On hearing Callistratus greatly applauded in a popular 
assembly, he was fired to emulate his eftbrt. But his attempt 
was an entire failure. So defective had been his physical edu- 
cation, that lie could not succeed in that part of oratory called 
bv the Athenians utio'/.olglc. In the confusion of the assemblv, 
he could not make himself heard, as his action was not sufii- 
ciently attractive to secure silent attention, and those who listened 
disliked the short periods in which his short breath compelled 
him to express himself In disgrace he left the stand. The 
player Satyrus found him in his mortification, explained the 
cause of his failure, and by recitinjr after him a passage from 
33 ' ^ 



386 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 

one of the tragedians impressed upon his mind the importance 
of attending to the externals of oratory. Do that, said the play- 
er, and you will one day stand not second to Pericles himself. 

Demetrius Phalerius a credible contemporary historian pro- 
fesses to have had from the lips of Demosthenes an account of 
the measures he now adopted to make himself an orator. He 
secluded himself entirely from society, built a subterranean stu- 
dy, practised attitudes before a mirror, suspended a sword over 
his naked shoulder to keep it from protruding, and to seclude 
himself more closely shaved off his hair. He went by the sea- 
shore and vied with the voice of the waves, put pebbles in his 
mouth to cure his stammering, and declaimed while running 
up and down hill. He habituated himself to habits of close 
analysis of the orations which he heard, and availed himself of 
every opportunity for improvement. He was always assiduous 
in preparing for his efforts, even after the perfection of his pow- 
ers. He justified this assiduity on the ground of his respect 
for Athens, and was unmoved when called a water-drinker, or 
a lamp-orator. By his steady exertions he presented to the 
w orld an example of a constantly progressive mind, his last ef- 
fort, the De Corona, being his best. But we learn from Plu- 
tarch several instances in which he exhibited extemporaneous 
power. One against Pytho the Byzantian, before the ambassa- 
dors of the confederacy, and another against the sophist Lama- 
chus. In both of these cases he signally defeated his opponents 
and gained great applause for himself. 

Eight years elapsed before Demosthenes appeared again in a 
popular assembly. Meanwhile he i)ractised as an attorney in 
the courts, preparing those legal arguments in civil cases of 
which twenty-six are extant.* By his law-practice he acquired 
that intimate acquaintance with the Athenian code which was 
of essential service to him as a statesman. Probably at this 
period were composed the ngoolfxia drj^r}/ogi}i(x, or introductions 
to popular harangues. These he afterwards used, and it is in- 
teresting to compare his first copy with the oration as it was 
delivered.f In this he was imitated by Cicero, in his " volumen 
proemiorum."t 

A judicial orator would recommend himself to the favorable 
notice of the people by the skilful conduct of state cases — call- 
ing to account those citizens who had proposed bad laws, or 
defending those thus accused. Demosthenes' first efforts in this 

" Probably only that for Phormio was delivered by himself, 
t See Philip 1. Olynth. 3. t Atticus 16. 6. 



BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 387 

department were two arguments,^ the first against Leptines, 
with reference to his law prohibiting exemption from duty, and 
the second against Androtrion, on tlie illegahty of honoring a 
senate that had not fulfilled its duty. These speeches, particu- 
larly the first, from its jealons regard for the honor and faith of 
the Slate as well as its flatteries of the people, njade him at once 
popular, and opened the way for his career as a public orator. 
His first eflTort in this capacity was in the year following, in the 
oration negl Gv^fxooLwv^ or as Demosthenes calls it, in his ora- 
tion for the Rhodians, tuqI toov ^aadixcjv, and so Dionysius 
calls it the speech on the Persian war. It was a triumphant ef- 
fort, not only for the rej)utation of the orator, but for the safety 
of the state. 

During the following year he wrote for Diodorus the oration 
against Timocrates — and delivered in the assembly the oration for 
the Megalopolitans, and perhaps that negl (Tvvia^twg. This year 
was remarkable as first calling the attention of Demosthenes to 
the design of Philip which he made his chief topic of examina- 
tion for fifteen years. Philip had now pretty thoroughly estab- 
lished his power and dominion. His conquest on the coast of 
the Sea of Torone fortified him against attacks from the seaside, 
and the victories on the north secured him from that quarter. 
He had been fixe years at league with the Thessalians, his neigh- 
bors on the south. He had a brave and well disciplined body 
of infantry well supported by the newly discovered mines at 
Philippi, and Thessaly supplied his cavalry. He was able to 
procure fleets from similar sources at his pleasure. But above 
all he was favored by disunion in the Grecian states, and by 
the idleness and profligacy which prevailed in Athens. Since 
the Peloponnesian war, the strifes and jealousies between 
Athens, Sparta and Thebes seemed to preclude the possibility 
of their uniting against Philip. Athens was quarreling with 
Sparta about the Megalopolitans, with Thebes, since Epaminon- 
das, about the i]'/e}iovl(x, with Chios, Rhodes and Cos about their 
independence, and besides became involved on the part of the 
Phocians in the sacred war. Besides this the extensive revenues 
of the stare were wasted on the pleasures of peace. A bad hab- 
it had sprung up of enjploying foreign mercenaries instead of 
citizen soldiers in the battles of the state, and these, if poorly 
paid as they generally were, became insubordinate hordes, ravag- 
ing the region for booty. The generals lost all power of disci- 

* Year 2nd of Olymp. lOG. 



388 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 

pline, and the best of them refused to command. The situation 
of the orator in a free state, with no more power or authority 
than the bribed demagogues who opposed him, rendered him 
far inferior to a powerful autocrat. For an interesting passage 
on this subject see De Corona sec. 69. 

In the fourth year of the hundred and sixth Olj-mpiad, Philip 
was employed by the Thessalians to drive out Lycophron, one 
of their tyrants. The latter took refuge with the Phocians, who 
under Phyllus conquered twice the army of Philip. Being 
obliged to reinstate his forces in Macedonia, he returned and 
routed the Phocians, and passed on to occupy the passage of 
Therraopylee, in order to place his enemies more completely in 
his power, and to establish himself in the heart of Greece. 
From this design he was repulsed by the energetic conduct of 
the Athenians. Excited and encouraged by this event, Demos- 
thenes in his first Philippic presented a plan to blockade the 
Macedonian harbors, and thus to keep Philip at home. We 
have no evidence from the subsequent state of the war that they 
complied with the direction. The probability is that they voted 
to raise the necessary supplies, but the current report of Philip's 
sickness and death prevented them from acting. We have no 
evidence that for three years afterward Demosthenes spoke in 
the public assemblies. The oration against Aristogiton was 
written during the same year with the first Philippic. 

In the second year of the hundred and seventh Olympiad the 
Rhodians sent their request to Athens for aid in obtaining re- 
lief from the oppression of Artemisia. The recent hostile posi- 
tion of Rhodes rendered the result doubtful, but Demosthenes 
appeared for the Rhodians, urging a magnanimous support of 
these penitent and returning allies. Fortunately for Athens the 
death of Artemisia rendered the assistance unnecessary. 

Philip was Jiow occupied with two neighboring enemies in 
Macedonia. The first was Cersobleptes king of Thrace, of 
whom we have no definite knowledge,* the second Olynthus, 
a free state on the bay of Torone, of his expedition against 
which we have all needful particulars. Olynthus from its ear- 
liest history had been at enmity with the Macedonian princes. 
Philip at first endeavored by favor to secure its friendship, but 
it soon separated itself from him, and sought the alliance of 
Athens.f The indignation of Philip soon found a pretext for 
development, in the guardiansliip afforded by Olynthus to the 

* Dyonys. VI. p. 735. t Olymp. 106. 4. 



BECKER OX DEMOSTHENES. 389 

two natural sous of Amyntas, who had made an attempt on 
Phihp's Mfe. Phihp invaded their territory with tlie threat — 
Either I must leave Macedonia or you Olynthus. They turn- 
ed to Athens for aid. Demades and some other orators oppo- 
sed their request, hut Demosthenes showed so clearh' the im- 
portant advantage of their uniting with Olynthus against a com- 
mon enemy, that they sent to their relief '2100 mercenaiies un- 
der Chares. But Chares proved an inefficient general, and 
Philip continued his incursions until he had twice routed the 
Olynthians in the field, and shut them up in the city. They 
then made a second call upon Athens. Demosthenes once 
more appeared in their behalf, and succeeded in causing a host of 
4000 mercenaries and 150 cavalry under Chiridemus to be sent 
to Olynthus. Their success was at first indifferent, and the 
Athenian army was soon turned into a horde of banditti, a ter- 
ror to tliose they came to aid. This induced the Olynthians 
in their third request to pray for citizens rather than isyoL. Ac- 
cording to the solicitation of Demosthenes, an army of 2000 
footmen and 300 horsemen, all native citizens, under Chares 
were ordered to the relief of Olynthus ; at the same time it was 
determined to send ambassadors to stir up the several states of 
Greece against this common enemy. Meanwhile by the treach- 
ery of two of its citizens Olynthus was betrayed into the 
hands of Philip. 

Only one state now remained to Athens, and tliat was Thra- 
cian Chersonesus. It was a great object to retain that state 
from its importance in the corn-trade, and it was now so com- 
pletely in the power of Philip that the only course seemed to 
be to prevent his incursion upon it by peace. To that object 
Demosthenes now turned his attention. 

After the overthrow of Olynthus, Philip celebrated the Olym- 
pian games with great pomp in Dium. He took care that del- 
egates should be present from all parts of Greece, and among 
other arts to win those present to his cause, he mentioned quite 
publicly his desire for a peace with Athens. This was soon 
reported in Athens. Another circumstance tended still more 
to bring matters to the desired result. Phiynon, an Athenian 
was seized by a band of Macedonian robbers, who released 
him only on the payment of a ransom. Ctesiphon was sent to 
Philip in company with him to demand back the ransom. They 
brought back so favorable an account of the peacet'ul intentions 
of the king, that Philocrates proposed that Philip should be en- 
couraged to send ambassadors to Athens in order to treat con- 

33* 



390 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 

cerning peace. This measure was supported by Demosthenes. 
Aristodemus the actor was sent to demand the freedom of some 
Athenian citizens taken when Olynthus was destroyed, and he 
brought back favorable reports of the generosity and the pacific 
spirit of Philip. This encouraged Philocrates to propose an 
embassy on the subject to Philip, and ten were sent among 
whom were Philocrates, Aristodemus, Aeschines and Demos- 
thenes. Philip received the ambassadors with the utmost ur- 
banity, and promised to send an embassy to Athens to conclude 
the peace. He sent a letter to Athens full of general and in- 
definite promises. Having now secured himself against the op- 
position of the Athenians in his designs upon Thrace, he pro- 
ceeded against Cersobleptes with great energy and even be- 
sieged him in the Uqov oqoc. 

About this time the ambassadors concerning the peace arri- 
ved from Macedon. Demosthenes had made all things ready, 
and the treaty was soon concluded — yet so that Cersobleptes 
and Phocia were effectually excluded from its privileges. In- 
stantly after their departure Demosthenes urged the immediate 
mission of ambassadors to administer the oath to Philip, and to 
secure the protection of all their allies. They proceeded to 
Pella, but Philip did not return to meet them there till three 
months afterward, and then the fate of Thrace was sealed. In 
taking his oath he excluded the Phocians and the inhabitants 
of Cardia in Thracian Chersonesus from the treaty and sent 
back the embassy to Athens with a letter fall of falsehoods and 
absurdities. Demosthenes impeached his colleagues. Aeschi- 
nes in self-defence asserted that Philip had no really hostile in- 
tentions against Phocia, but only wanted to humble Thebes. 
The treaty was confirmed by the people. Phocia was now an 
easy prey to Philip. The intelligence of its utter destruction 
and dismemberment threw consternation over the Athenian 
public. But with the fear of Philip which his assurances re- 
moved, vanished also their wrath against the traitors who had 
so deceived them. 

With this intelligence respecting Phocia, Philip requested 
the Athenians to send and confirm his appointment to the seat 
of Phocia in the Amphictyonic council. In his oration on the 
peace, Demosthenes favored this request, as its refusal would 
only bring down on themselves the united vengeance of Philip 
and of the confederated states ; and it was granted. 

A peace like this, unsatisfactory both to Athens and to Philip, 
could not be very protracted in its duration. But it had one 



BECKER OX DEMOSTHENES. 391 

important influence, in raising up in Athens a party for Philip 
which was bought with his gold, which continued to harass the 
patriots until the state was vanquished. 

Meanwhile Lacedemon was secretly and silently husbanding 
its resources to prepare for regaining the sovereignty. Philip, 
with the motto, ' divide and conquer,' was watching with interest 
anything that might tend to prevent that united action against 
himself, which he had most reason to di'ead. Lacedemon com- 
menced its efforts by endeavoring to reduce Messene, an old 
enemy redeemed by Epaminondas, but now again exposed to 
their power. Philip to widen the breach sent aid to the Mes- 
senians. Athens was so impressed with the danger of this 
quarrel, that at the instigation of Demosthenes, they sent am- 
bassadors to the Messenians, who so fully exposed the corrup- 
tion of Philip as to induce them to abandon the coalition and 
the quarrel. An extract from Demosthenes' speech on this oc- 
casion may be found in his second Philippic. In that oration 
Demosthenes exposes the intentions of the king unfavorable to 
Athens, and declaims loudly against the men who had formed 
the peace. Hence arose the published, but not spoken contro- 
versy, between himself and Aeschines, tisql naqanqsa^daq. 

Philip had devoted the season of peace to the increase of his 
naval power, and soon took the island of Halonesus from its pi- 
ratical owner. The Athenians sent to claim it as their undis- 
puted possession. He wrote back disputing the legality of 
their claim, but offering to make them a present of the island. 
Great was the indignation among the orators in which no doubt 
Demosthenes participated, although the oration on Halonesus 
is not rightly attributed to him. These bickerings at length 
broke out into open quarrel. Cersobleptes, king of Chersone- 
sus, made an exertion to free himself from the tyraimy of Philip. 
Philip meant to avail himself of the opportunity to subdue him 
utterly, and thus secure for himself the whole Thracian sea- 
coast as far as the Bosphorus. Cersobleptes was aided by Dio- 
j)ithes, the Athenian general, successfully to repel this aggres- 
sion, and Diopithes was defended by Demosthenes in the ora- 
tion on the Chersonesus. Philij) now endeavored to effect an 
alliance with the Byzantians. On this occasion Demosthenes 
delivered the third Philip[)ic, in which he endeavored to aggra- 
vate the already embittered feeling of the people, and to point 
out war as the only means of redress against the man wIjo had 
already forfeited their confidence, and violated their treaty. In 
accordance with the counsel of the orator in this speech, the 



392 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 

Athenians sent an army under command of Phoeian to Eubaea, 
who forced the Macedonians to retire, and drove out the dy- 
nasties supported by Phihp. A crown was voted to Demos- 
thenes by the states of Eubaea. 

Phihp now turned his attention to Thrace, where he wished 
to subdue Perinthus and Byzantium. He was long resisted by 
their impregnable situation and their boldness, but as Athens 
was irritated by their refusal of the suspicious aid of Chares, 
their admiral, it was feared that they could not hold out long 
against Philip. By the advice of Demosthenes the Athenians 
rehnquished their wrath, and sent Phocion with a force which 
effectually frustrated the plans of Phihp in that quarter. 

Philip, completely baffled, was obliged to retire from Greece 
for two years. The events of that period are not well authen- 
ticated. He commenced an expedition agauist the northern 
tribes for the double purpose of exercising and encouraging his 
troops, and to give his bribed adherents in Greece a better op- 
portunity to further his designs. A way was as length prepar- 
ed for his return. Aeschines got up, probably with treacherous 
motives, a second Sacred War, with reference to the doomed 
Cyrrhaean region, noticed in the oration of Aeschines against 
Ctesiphon* and that of Demosthenes on the crown.f After 
much trouble the command was given to Philip, and he made 
his appearance in Greece with 30,000 footmen and 2,000 horse- 
men. Of course so large a force must have been designed for 
something more than the subjugation of so small a place as 
Amphissia. He had his eye on Athens. And the Athenians 
perceiving it determined to keep him occupied as long as pos- 
sible at a distance from themselves. They sent troops to the 
number of 10,000 to aid the Amphissians — but Proxenus, the 
general, proved a traitor, and left the Amphissians to their fate. 
Philip made his winter quarters in Amphissia and Locria. 

In the third year of the hundred and tenth Olympiad, Philip 
was again in motion. The Athenians in terror solicited first a 
truce, and finally a peace ; which last he promised to bestow on 
condition they would banish such of their orators as were op- 
posed to him. To please Thebes, he took Elatia, the capital of 
Phocis. The consternation which this intelligence excited at 
Athens, and the measures adopted, may be gathered from the 
oration on the crown.J Agreeably to his recommendation an 
embassy was sent to Thebes. They were there met by a pow- 

* Sec. 36—44. t Sec. 46—52. t Sec. 53—60. 






BECKER OX DEMOSTHENES. 393 

erful embassy from Philip, but the eloquence of Demosthenes 
and the excellence of the cause prevailed, and to the joy of 
Thebes and Athens the desirable coalition was formed. But 
the joy was soon dissipated by the battle of Cheronea in which 
after a most closely contested struggle Philip proved complete- 
ly victorious, and more than a thousand Athenians w^ere slain 
and two thousand taken prisoners. Great was the consterna- 
tion occasioned at Athens by this event. The city was put in 
a posture of defence, and the approach of Philip was daily look- 
ed for. But with his customary moderation, influenced also by 
his respect for Athens as the seat of literature and the arts, 
Philip refrained from further conquest, sent back the prisoners, 
and sent Alexander to arrange a treaty, requiring only that they 
should send ambassadors to the assembly he was about to hold 
in Corinth. Very different, and more severe was his treatment 
of Thebes. 

Lysicles one of the generals was prosecuted and condemned. 
Several unsuccessful attempts were made to bring Demosthe- 
nes to a similar punishment. He was appointed to deliver the 
funeral oration, and probably executed the task with more taste 
and skill than the composer of the iniTotcpiog which is common- 
ly attributed to him. But a strong party from that event began 
to form itself against the orator, which proved too much for 
his talent and virtue. 

Meanwhile the proposed convention was held at Corinth for 
the purpose of enlisting the Greeks in Philip's expedition against 
Persia. To that he was directing all his plans and efforts, when 
at the celebration of his daughter's nuptials at Aegea, he was 
assassinated in the twenty-fourth year of his reign and the 
forty-sixth of his age.* Demosthenes in the enthusiasm occa- 
sioned by this intelligence forgot his domestic troubles, jo}-- 
fully made annunciation of it to the people, demanded a crown 
for the assassinator, and spoke contemptuously of Alexan- 
der. All Greece soon caught the feeling and proclaimed their 
independence of Macedonia. But it did not amount to an 
efficient and organized union against Alexander, and when he 
appeared with an army of Boeotians, Athens sent to solicit j)eace. 
He granted it on the same conditions as his father had done. 
This was that they should cooperate with him against Persia. 
He then turned his attention to revolting tribes north oflNFace- 
donia. A revolt at Thebes, in which it is uncertain how far 

* See Gillies' Greece. 



394 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 

Athens shared brought Alexander down upon that city with the 
spirit of* carnage, and only by the solicitations of Demades was 
he kept from insisting upon his demand from Athens of the per- 
sons of her orators. 

Alexander now proceeded to his expedition against Persia, 
and left Antipater to take care of Macedonia and Greece. Athens 
might now have remained peaceful and happy but for that proud 
spirit which disdained inferiority and subjection. Such was 
the spirit cultivated by Demosthenes and his party, and opposed 
by the strong Macedonian party raised through the influence of 
Antipater in the city. 

About this time occurred the celebrated contest for the crown 
between Aeschines and Demosthenes. Eight years before a 
crown had been proposed for Demosthenes by Ctesiphon, to be 
conferred at the theatre at the jjeriod of the Dionysia. In conse- 
quence of certain illegalities in the decree, Ctesiphon was pros- 
ecuted by Aeschines, but in the unsettled state of the city a fa- 
vorable opportunity for the trial had not occurred till now. Aes- 
chines lost the case, and being unable to pay the fine retired to 
Rhodes. 

This triumph exasperated the more the enemies of Demosthe- 
nes, and they endeavored to degrade him lower than ever from 
his temporary elevation. A favorable opportunity soon occurred. 

The unsuccessful revolt of Agis of Lacedemon, the Atheni- 
ans had not shared in, but another under Leosthenes they were 
secretly aiding. Antipater perceiving it determined to try brib- 
ery, as it had been so eflTectually employed there by Philip. 
Harpalus an oflricer of Alexander about this time made his ap- 
pearance in Athens. He had defrauded his master of great 
wealth, and was now endeavoring to stir up Greece to revolt. 
Demosthenes opposed him, as he thought it ignoble to treat 
with such a knave, but when Antipater sent a demand for the 
person of Harpalus, and the question was to be discussed, De- 
mosthenes excused himself from speaking on the ground of 
a bad cold. His enemies circulated a report that he had been 
bribed to silence by Harpalus. Demosthenes might very sincere- 
ly have opposed the surrender even of an enemy to sucJi a de- 
mand, but this his opponents pretended to disbelieve, urged on 
probably by Antipater. He was publicly accused. Contraiy 
to the custom of the age, but probably in accordance v/ith his 
own suggestion, he was brought first before the Areopagus. 
Here no decisive evidence was adduced against him, but the 
judges, probably of the Macedonian party, were prejudiced and 



BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 395 

decided that he was guilty. The case was referred to a more 
popular court for sentence, and as able counsel were employ- 
ed against him, particularly Dinarchus who distinguished him- 
self for virulence and bitterness, he was condemned to pay 
fifty talents and committed to prison. He escaped by flight.* 
We learn from Pausanias, that Philoxenos subsequently sent to 
Athens an accurate report of the briberies of Harpalus, in which 
no mention was made of Demosthenes, whom, from motives of 
personal hatred, he would not have failed to implicate had it 
been possible. 

Demosthenes passed his exile in Aegina or Irozena, and 
seems to have been completely unmanned. Some young men 
w^ho visited him he told, that if two courses had been pointed 
out to him at the beginning, one to political distinction the 
other to death, had he foreseen the evils of the former he would 
have chosen the latter. 

The decease of Alexander roused the energies of the oppo- 
nents of Macedonia, who were already excited by his last com- 
mand at the Olympic games that the states should recall their 
exiles. Leosthenes proceeded with great zeal in the collection 
of an army, and Athens voted to raise a fleet of 240 ships, and 
to take measures to rouse the rest of Greece to a great struggle 
for liberty. To the ambassadors sent from Athens Demosthe- 
nes of his own accord joined himself, and by his powers of per- 
suasion aided much in securing a favorable result. All Greece 
was soon in arms, and even Thessaly, so long faithful to Mac- 
edon, joined the league. Antipater took refuge in Lamia, and 
Leosthenes in besieging the city was killed by a stone thrown 
from the wall. Antiphilus was appointed general in his stead. 

Demosthenes by a decree proposed by his cousin Demon, 
was now recalled from banishment. As he entered the Pira- 
eus all Athens flocked out to meet him. Overcome by his feel- 
ings he extended his arms, and considered himself more fortu- 
nate than Alcibiades, in that his fellow citizens not by compul- 
sion but willingly had recalled him. TIjc fine was paid by mo- 
nies contributed by the citizens for one of their religious festi- 
vals. 

After the death of Leosthenes the Greeks were unsuccessful 
against Antipater. He was joined by Leonnatus with a large 
army. Antipater soon withdrew to Macedonia. But still more 
unsuccessful were the Greeks by sea. 

* See Dinarchus against Demosthenes — a performance of great 
rhetorical merit. 



396 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 

From Macedonia, Antipater soon returned v/ith a large rein- 
forcement. The forces of the Greeks were now much dimin- 
ished and dispirited, and were defeated by Antipater with great 
slaughter. A consultation among the Greek generals immedi- 
ately after the defeat, resulted in a plan to sue with Antipater 
for peace. But he refused to treat with them altogether, and 
proposed to treat with individual states. The treaty and alli- 
ance being thus dissolved, Athens found herself alone, exposed 
to the fury of the enemy. In dismay she turned to the Mace- 
donian party, and sent Demades and Phocion to sue for mercy. 
Antipater spared Athens only on the most humiliating condi- 
tions—changing her constitution, securing the banishment of a 
large proportion of her citizens, and obliging the remainder to 
be awed by a Macedonian garrison. So fell Athens, and De- 
mosthenes could not survive his country. Already with other 
orators of his own party he had retired from the city. They 
were condemned to death. Antipater sent Archias with troops 
to execute the sentence. Demosthenes had betaken himself to 
the temple of Neptune in the isle cf Calauria near Troezena. 
After a somewhat humorous conversation with Archias who had 
formerly been an actor, he retired as if to write, and took poi- 
son long secreted for the purpose. He sank down by the altar. 

Having now considered Demosthenes as a man and a states- 
man, let us proceed to consider him as an orator. 

Eloquence has been defined by Kant— die Kunst durch die 
Rede zu talischen — the art of deceiving by speech. But that 
is defining a thing from its occasional effects. Where is the 
art which has not been so abused? From the history of elo- 
quence it will be seen that it was not founded in such an aim. 

It is somewhat remarkable that eloquence took its rise not in 
the free states of Greece but in Sicily, under different political 
influences. The statesmen and generals of Athens seem to 
have commended themselves by the straight- forward preserva- 
tion of a good cause rather than by any skilful or artful collo- 
cation of words and sentences. Even Pericles could have little 
cultivation, and the speeches commonly attributed to him are 
known to be the work of his historian Thucydides. Goran in 
Sicily seems to have been the first who employed peculiar 
forms of words to secure favor and influence. Of his pupils 
were Tisias and Gorgias of Leontium, the latter of whom be- 
ing sent on an embassy by his countrymen to Athens, introduced 
the art there, and remained there as a teacher. He invented 



BECKER OX DEMOSTHENES. 397 

oratorical numbers and paid great attention to the cultivation 
of external oratory, but the internal — the thought he niuch neg- 
lected. This school of oratory was too superficial for Athenian 
tastes, and ended ^yith Alcidamas his pupil. Antiphon the dis- 
ciple of Gorgias was the tirst who applied the art to any pur- 
poses of utility. First he introduced it into court, afterwards 
with Lysias and Andocides, into the interesting ])olitical matters 
now agitated, till the art of oratory began to be found indispen- 
sable to success, and its cultivation universal. 

There were two men who did much to form the taste of the 
Athenians for oratory, Isocrates and Isaeus. The former, pro- 
bably a pupil of Gorgias, prevented l)y his own dithdence from 
ap}>earing in public as a ?[)eaker, disseminated the principles 
of rhetoric by his written lectures and instructions. He lectured 
also on the various sciences important to a statesman, and from 
his school there came out more historians tlian orators. The 
other, Isaeus, probably a pu])il of Isocrates, but far superior in 
original powers of mind to his instructor, foruied his scholars 
for the severe conflict of the bar and tlie popular assembly, and 
taught them how to convince and persuade. He represented 
weight of thought clothed with strong yet agreeable expressions 
as the chief desideratum. While Isocrates cultivated chiefly 
the external, he attended chiefly to the argument and arrange- 
ment, with a partial sacrifice of tliat smoothness and elegance 
which we rind wanting in all the speeclies of his great pupil 
Demosthenes. From this time the state began to patronize the 
art, and the oflice of an orator became one of great responsibil- 
ity and influence as well as of arduous labor. In the time of 
Demosthenes, Philip gave much occupation to the orators, and 
the whole situation of the state increased the importance of the 
profession. One characteristic by \\ hich the orations of Demos- 
thenes are distingui^iled Irom all others is the thorough and 
complete preparation they evince, so that he seems to exhaust 
his subject. This is particularly true of the oration on Lepti- 
nes, that on the Crown, the third Philippic, and that for the 
Rhodians. There is a completeness about the argument that 
perfectly satisfies, and leads us to feel that no more could be 
said. Hence David Hume has said that of all human produc- 
tions these orations come nearest perfection. In others of his 
public speeches we are not conscious of that degree of perfect- 
ness, from the fact that other orators had preceded him, that 
the people were already well informed, or that tlie time for 
speaking was limited. 

34 



398 BECKER OX DEMOSTHEXES. 

The old rlietoricians divided eloqucDce into three parts. 
3. Invention — the discovery of arguments. *2. Disposition — the 
arrangement of them. 3. Elocution — the working up of the 
arranged arguments into an effective speech. We shall see 
that Demosthenes excelled in each of these particulars. 

The first thing which strikes us under the head of invention, 
is his admirable skill in arranging his arguments. Ordinarily 
he places the best arguments at the commencerijent, follows 
them up with the weaker, and concludes with such as will pro- 
duce the greatest impression. Sometimes, however, he mixes 
promiscuously the good and the bad, that they may mutually 
support each other. Thus in the speech against Leptines, the 
orator ventures upon the doubtful assertion that only a few had 
been exempted from public duties, and to strengthen it urges 
the very proper consideration that those thus privileged would 
retiu'n the favor by new services at another time. Again, the 
orator separates his arguuicnts from one another, so that those 
received from considerations of expediency may stand out dis- 
tinct from those received from considerations of propriety and 
duty. Thus in his Philippics he presents the utility of war, 
the fame of the state, and the claims of duty, as each sepai*ately 
yet all in unison tending to tavor his measures. 

The ancient rhetoricians attributed the great success of De- 
mosthenes to his entbymemes. An enthymeme is defined by 
Aristotle as a syllogism which has not so many members as a 
dialectic syllogism.^ They are of especial use in legal argu- 
ments. A good instance of the enthymeme occurs in the ora- 
tion against Leptines, where the orator shows that favor to the 
bad is an amiable weakness, ingratitude to the good, a crime. 
And as the latter is worse than the former, so the law of Lepti- 
nes, guarding against all immunities, lest they should be abused, 
is worse than the old system of conferring promiscuously. 
Another instance occurs at the close of sec. 8, De Corona. An- 
other passage of this kind is quoted by Quinctilian.f "When 
the law has been before violated and you imitate the viola- 
tion, can you on that account plead an exemption of punish- 
ment? So much the more must you be punished, since if your 
predecessors had been punished, you would not have imitated 
them. And now if you are punished, no one in future will dare 
to respect the sin." These examples might be greatly multi- 
plied. This figure adds much to the force of his eloquence, as 

* Rhet. I. 1. t B. V. 14. 



BECKER OX DEMOSTHENES. 399 

it coDcentrates the whole argiimeDt upon a shigle point, and 
forces more readily the assent of the hearers. 

Another source of our orator's success was his frequent use 
of n:noa duyuftra — reasoning from examples. This is rightly 
judged to be of great iniportance.* Of especial force was it 
among a people who revered their ancestry like the xVthenians, 
The orator uses tliis method in the third Olynthiac, where he 
endeavors to awaken the spirit of 3Iiltiades and Themisiocles, 
and to bring back the better times of the state. In tlie first 
Philippic he incites them to energy and hope under discour- 
acrement, from the existence of similar virtues in former stru^r- 
gles, and the glorious consequence. In the third Philippic, the 
object is to prove that PJiili[) notwithstanding the peace is the 
foe of Athens, which is sustained by the following induction: 
he wiio disturbs Greece, destroys cities and disorganizes states, 
is our enemy. In the speech against Loptines, to prove the 
injury effected by his law, he describes the miseries of those 
deprived by it of exemptions. 

Demosthenes is also distinguished for the elevated sentiments 
with which his speeches are so plentiildly strewed. Very dif- 
ferent is he in this respect from Aeschines or Isocrates or Lysi- 
as, and the only ancient orator who is like him is Isaeus.f From 
this quahty the stoic Panaetius has expressed the opinion, that 
almost all these speeches seem to favor the stoical doctrine that 
virtue is to be ()reterred for its own sake, as almost all prefer 
virtue to the good of the state. 

To come now to speak of the Disposition ; this was divided 
by the ancients into introduction, narration, proposition, proof 
and refutation of opponents, and peroration. According to 
Aristotle, the object of the introduction is to make known to 
the hearers the subject ; according to Cicero and Quinctillian 
it is to make the hearers attentive and favorable. 

Almost all the introductions of Demosthenes are short. In 
some cases they are com[;rised in a single sentence. In his 
Philippics one or two thoughts are sufficient for introduction. 
He begins either with an apology, as in the first Philippic, or a 
statemetU of the nature of the subject as in the first and second 
Olynlliiacs, or a contradiction of some previously expressed 

* Cic. De Orat. 34. 

t See Ph lip. III. sec. 4, tu 3' H'Gs/itg^ etc. Olynth. II. sec. 4, ov 
fOTif—ory. forii'y Sec. 7, a/J.ouai ivv. Sec. 8, /Luydlrj yuQ ^otitj. 
De Corona, passim. 



400 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 

opinion as in the third Olynthiac, or a reprehension of preced- 
ing orators as in the Chersonese oration, or there is no intro- 
duction at ail as in the MegalopoUtan oration. In the private 
cases, he begins either with a complaint against the character 
of his opponent, as in his speeches against Lacritus, Callicles 
and Boeotns, or a profesvsion of inexperience, as in that against 
Phormio, or a recommendation of the subject as more impor- 
tant than it seems, as against Polycles, or more frequently with 
a single statement from which to proceed directly to the sub- 
ject, and sometimes there is none at all, as against Zenothemis. 
Demosthenes by following the rule of Aristotle avoids the er- 
rors of more modern orators in his introductions. He skilfully 
makes them the key-note to which the sequel of his oration is 
attuned, and of course they are fitted to prepare the hearers for 
what follows. On extraordinary occasions Demosthenes would 
expend more labor on his introductions. The ancients made 
two kinds, tjqooI^iov and ^^(.podnr. Of the former class would 
be those already described ; of the latter such as would be ne- 
cessary to calm the ])rejudices and appease the irritation of the 
hearers. A fine instance of this last kind occurs in the De Co- 
rona. He rose under unfavorable circumstances. Aeschines 
had made a great impression against him. His remaiks on the 
law had been acute. His claim on the judges to restrict his 
opponent to the same arrangement was urgent. But still worse 
was the impression conveyed that Demosthenes was an irreli- 
gious man, and disbelieved the gods. Demosthenes com- 
mences with an appeal to all the gods, fitted to dispel their sus- 
picions, speaks of the advantage of his o})ponent, and again 
prays the gods to incline the judges not to grant his request. 

After tlie introduction followed the narration. This was de- 
signed to give the hearers tlie necessary information as to the 
case before them. Of course in speeches advising for the fu- 
ture, like the pviblic harangnes of Demosthenes, it was unne- 
cessaiT, but in legal argument, it was of the highest importance 
to remove prejudice from the minds of the judges, and tiive 
them that information which would lead to a favorable decision. 
According to Aristotle the qualities of this part should be clear- 
ness, probabihty, and conciseness. Among ancient oiators Ly- 
sias was most distinguished in this part. But Dionysius, by a 
comparison of extracts from the two orators, has shown that 
Demosthenes was in no way inferior. This excellence may be 
particularly seen in the argument against Conon. 

Next comes the pioposition, and statement of the plan. An- 



BECKER OX DEMOSTHENES. 401 

cient orators were much Jess particular in this than modern 
ones, because the circumstances of their speeches and argu- 
ments made it less necessary, and because it was often expedi- 
ent to keep up attention by keeping the hearers in suspense. 
SucJi is generally the course of Demosthenes. He ])refers to 
speak as he pleases, without the shackles of a previously stated 
plan. 

The most important part was the proof and refutation. Id 
the management of tiiis, Demosthenes especially excelled. His 
popular speeches consisted of a continuous row of syllogisms, 
and pioois grounded upon general principles or examples. 
Very seldom was there any one on such occasions to refute. 
But in legal arguments very much depended on the refutation 
of an adversary. Here tiie external proofs, testimony, laws, 
toriure, etc. came to his aid, but much depended on the power 
of the orator to infuse life into this dead mass. Opposing ar- 
guments were to be taken up and faithfully compared, and prov- 
ed inferior to his own. Demosthenes introduces his refutations 
with — ' I hear that my opponent w^ill say.' Not that he had 
heard anything, but by his thorougli meditation upon the sub- 
ject was able to anticipate objections, and thus throw his adver- 
sary into great confusion and embarrassment. He does not 
ordinarily spend much time in refutation, but treats the oppos- 
ing arguments as if too worthless for his attention. Good in- 
stances of his manner may be found in the speeches against 
Dionysiodorus and Midias, and in that on the Crown. 

The last part is the peroration. His public speeches usual- 
ly end with the expression of some pious wish for the good of 
the state, or some profession of his own sincerity and disinter- 
estedness. They are all short like his introductions. Of far 
greater importance should be the peroration to the legal argu- 
ment. Tlie sympathies of the judge depend much on the clos- 
ing appeal. But here Demosthenes is far inferior to Cicero. 
He is better in complaints than in defences. The close of the 
speeches against Midias and Aeschines are not without power. 
But ordinarily his stern character seems poorly adapted to the 
graces of style fitted for moving to sympathy and compassion. 
Aeschines in this respect is far his superior. 

So much for the internal economy — now for the exterior 
form. The material is not all that gives value to a work of art. 
The form is also essential to completeness. 

Under the term elocution, the Ancients comprehended the 
clothing and exhibition of the thoughts prepared. The Athe- 

34* 



402 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 

nian populace paid great attention to this subject. xVcciistomed 
from childhood to an intimate acfjv.aintance with the poets, and 
in later years with philosophers and orators, their standard of 
taste was high, and the correctness they looked for in their pub- 
lic speakers was complete. This was of great advantage to 
the orator in giving him an audience for whom he w^ould not 
ha^e to depreciate his own style, but who were capable of un- 
derstanding his most refined and polished expressions, and his 
literary allusions. We must judge of the style of Demosthenes, 
by what were considered in his age the requisite qualities 
of a good style. These were rhythm of periods, figiu^es, and 
suitable variations in accordance with the subject. In each of 
these particulars Demosthenes excelled. The style of an au- 
thor depends upon his habits of thought. It is a })icture of his 
ideas. According to the predominance of the ratiocinative or 
the appetitive faculty, will be the peculiarities of the style. In 
Demosthenes the former predominated, but he is not deficient 
in the latter, when occasion called him to convince by excite- 
ment rather than by proof. To all styles clearness and beauty 
are essential. Clearness depends on purity and precision. 
Purity demands words suited to the subject, and neither obso- 
lete nor newly-coined. Precision demands that there be ex- 
pressed no more nor less than the author intends, and it in- 
cludes the subordinate as well as the leading ideas. In purity 
Demosthenes greatly excelled, as Dionysius has shown by com- 
paiing him with the principle masters of Attic style. But in 
precision is he still more distinguished. There is never a re- 
dundancy of words, or a sacrifice of sense to sound. Little is 
there to add, little to subtract. And he is here far superior to 
all his contemporaries — as Aeschines, Lycurgus, Hegesippus 
and Dinarchus. 

Ancient authors bestowed great attention upon the structure 
of sentences. Philosophers and historians strove to ^ve clear- 
ness, richness and euphony to their periods, and the orators 
were urged to the same by their attention to delivery. The 
Greek language was susceptible of great musical expression. 
Hence the cultivation of rhythm in oratory. But this quality 
of Greek eloquence is lost to our perception. The nature of 
the Greek language also contributed to clearness, in its flexi- 
tilit}', in the inversions of which it was susceptible, and in the 
participial constnictions to express the accessoiy definitions of 
the main proposition (Xebenbestimmungen des Hauptgedan- 
kens,) The sentences of Demosthenes, however crowded with 



BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 403 

parentheses, are all clear. Take for example the first sentence 
in the first PhiHppic. Long sentences are not ofi.en found in 
Demosthenes, and when they occur they have more precision 
than in Cicero. His long periods are composed of dififerent pro- 
positions, so that they aiJi)roximate to the character of short 
sentences. Simplicity is at the foundation of the great power 
of Demosthenes. 

Demosthenes made frequent use of tropes and figures of 
speech in his speeches. For a particular account of them see 
Vossii Instit. Orat. Lib. IV. V. L The metaphor — which puts 
like for like. Thus the words nQoaneQii^ixlXeTcxL, TifQiaToi/iCnaL 
in Sec, 4. Phil. I. bringing before the inind the picture of a 
huntsman, heated in the chase; uvf/ulTias Olynth. II. 4, vtibq- 
ty.ntnlri'/^iroL Olynth. 11. 3, representing those terrified by Phil- 
ip, in the peculiar sound of the word, and the image of one 
stunned by a stroke of lightning. 2. The interrogator}^ — Olynth. 
III. G. 3. The exclamation he uses not so often as Cicero, as 
it tends very little to aid the progress of the argument, or the 
proof 4. The anticipation [jiQolrnpiQ) is used in confuting be- 
forehand an adversary. When there is no regular opponent it 
assumes the dramatic form as Olynth. III. 9., d) twv, etc. 5. 
The sermocination, by which one absent is introduced as pre- 
sent and speaking. Thus Tinjotheus in De Chersoneso. 6. 
Repetition, ov yaq idilv — oi'x sinlv. 7. Concession, as De Class. 
8, and Cont. Lept. 18, where for the time being the orator ad- 
mits a position the more successfully to rebuke it afterward. 8. 
Apostrophe, De Corona, 60. 100. 9. Hyperbole, Phil. IIL 6. 10. 
Climax, De Corona, 55. IL A[)osiopesis, De Corona, 1. 12. 
Paronomasia, De Cor. {jij^aia — »;' (5«i-MaT«. Olynth. III. y>(u y,qi]- 
vng yju }.)]Qovg. 13. Irony and sarcasm. In De Cor. comparison 
between himself and Aeschines, etc. 14. Comparisons. These 
are introduced not for ornament, but for use. 

The ancients divide style into three kinds. 1. to Xemov, the 
graceful and easy; 2. //f'ro'rfc, the moderate ; 3. to jU£/f^o^, the 
elevated. The ancient rhetoiicians njake Demosthenes to have 
been distinguished for all, particularly the latter. The first he 
adopted in liis private speechfs particularly where the nature of 
the subject or cliaracter of individuals demanded. In his public 
speeches, he adopts the latter. Yet by no means uniforndy even 
there, it is not natunil for the human mind to sustain itself at an 
elevation for a very protracted i)eriod. The style only lights up 
occasionally with flashes of unwonted brilliancy — and then the 
hearer is let down gradually and gently from his height. De- 



404 BECKER ON DEMOSTHENES. 

mostlienes sometimes exhibits an air of clulness and a minute- 
ness of detail, \vbich make bini less pleasing tlian many of bis 
less valuable conteniporaries. Of tbis cbaracter is tbe last part 
of tbe tbird Olynthiac. Some passages of tbe De Corona ap- 
pear tedious, and tbere is mucb repetition in tbe speecb against 
Leptines. But many of tbe circumstances of an auditory migbt 
require peculiarities in a speech which would detract from its 
merit as a rhetorical perforuiance. 

But how mucb we lose in being deprived of the orator's own 
elocution, we may judge not only from descriptions of tbe an- 
cients, and frojn the temperament of the man, but from the 
structure of his style. The very rhythm and arrangement of 
bis sentences show bow everything was adapted for oral de- 
livery. Tbe fact that he held them so long in close attention 
— in tbe De Corona five hours — would also lead to the same 
inference in regard to bis style of speaking. His tones a])pear 
to have been deep and impressive while those of Aeschines 
were clear and musicaL 

Tbe expression of bis countenance was such as we should 
expect. A furrow of sadness marked bis visage.* His eye 
brightened in tbe enthusiasm of discourse, and sometimes glis- 
tened with a tear.f Sometimes he forgot himself, permitting 
tbe excitement of the moment to carry him beyond the bounds 
of propriety.^ One great source of bis power was tbe moral 
grandeur of his character. Hhetoricians have discuss(*d the 
comparative merits of Demosthenes and Cicero. For tbe for- 
mer, see Longinus, Fenelon and Blair ; for the latter Quincti- 
lian and Nigronius. 

In the time of tbe Reformation tbe orations of Demosthenes 
were highly esteemed. Melancthon was particularly dis- 
tinguished for tbe attention he paid to them. He edited seve- 
ral of bis orations and delivered lectures u})on them. In tbe 
same century Hieronymus Wolf published bis valued edition of 
the whole works of the orator. In the following century 
Greek literature was almost entirely neglected in Germany, 
and of course Demosthenes. More recently the influence 
of Ernesti has been to make more prominent the Latin orator, 
as a model and text book for study, and tbe merit of Rciske's 
edition has not been sufficient to counteract opposing tenden- 
cies. 

* Plutarch. t Aeschines j Aeschines 53. 



DEMOSTHENES OX THE CROWN. 405 



V. 

ANALYSIS OF THE ORATION OF DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN, 

WITH NOTES. 

Analysis, 

1. Demosthenes invokes the gods, and asks the privilege of 
arranging his argument as he pleases. 

2. Two circumstances particularly give his opponent the ad- 
vantage : (I) Demosthenes has everything to lose. (2) He is 
obliged to perform the inglorious and ungrateful task of self- 
praise. 

3. Yet he claims to be heard impartially, according to the 
laws provided by Solon. 

4. He again prays the gods, (1) that they may favor him as 
he has favored the state, (2) that the judges may so decide as to 
secure the favor of heaven and the welfare of their country. 

5. Passing by for the present the abuse heaped upon his pri- 
vate character, as the judges know what his whole life has 
been, he proceeds to enter on a defence of his political career. 

6. He complains that Aeschines had now for the first time, 
brought accusations out of all season, and had used the form of 
proceeding against Ctesiphon, only as a pretence. 

7. Proceeding to reply to the accusations of Aeschines, he 
notices first the peace. It was proposed by Philip, to prevent 
their uniting with the Thebans, and was accepted by the Athe- 
nians because they were weary of maintaining the fight alone 
without assistance from other Greeks. 

8. Demosthenes asserts that he was not the author of this 
peace, and demonstrates the folly and absurdity of the charge, 
that at the same time tliey called on the Greeks to take up 
arms. 

9. The cause of the haste of which Aeschines complains, in 
ratifying the treaty was if possible, immediately to prevent Phil- 
ip from continuing his depredations in the then defenceless 
state of the city. 

He defends his attentions to the ambassadors. 

10. The ambassadors of whom Aeschines was one, appoint- 
ed to hasten the treaty, had proceeded Avitli the most unpardon- 
able delay. 

11. After the ratification, Philip bribed Aeschines to delay 



406 DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 

comrniiiiicating it, that he might have opportunity to pursue 
his conquests. 

12. The disastrous consequences to Athens of the quiet pro- 
posed by Aeschines. 

13. The disastrous consequences to Thebes, occasioned by 
the same man who now affects such pity for the Thebans. 

14. The corruption and iniquity of certain demagogues had 
been the real cause of all difficulties. 

15. Traitors if they succeed, always become odious to their 
employers. Aeschines was bribed, because Athens had sucli 
vigilant guardians of her safety; and to these very men he ov/es 
it, that his treachery was not successful enough to bring ruin 
upon himself 

16. Demosthenes does not call him the friend, but the mer- 
cenary of Philip and Alexander. 

17. The Impeachment. 

18. Demosthenes proposes to examine the different articles 
in order, beginning with a defence of his political career, as 
meriting the praise and honor bestowed in the decree of Ctesi- 
phon. 

19. He first gives an account of the state of Greece, at the 
commencement of his administration, full of traitors, torn by 
faction, exposed to Philip's arts. 

20. The part of Athens at such a juncture was certainly not 
cooperation with Philip, nor indifference at his progress, but 
the veiy part recommended by hiuiself 

21. In view of their own glory, in view of the self-denials of 
their enefny, such a course became them. 

22. In view of Philip's progress, it became them. 

23. The first hostilities indeed commenced with Philip, and 
Demosthenes had no part in the retaliation, as may be seen 
from the decrees and Phili{)'s rejoinder. 

24. Demosthenes describes the rapidity and efficiency of his 
own movements to check Philip. 

25. lie shows that he was influenced by no bribery, while 
Aeschines had entertained at his house the enemies of the 
state, and had been influenced to act for them. 

26. The crown was proposed in a similar way by Aristoni- 
cus, in reward for the services of Demosthenes. Aeschines 
never made the least coi7iplaint. 

27 Throu<ih his instrumentality in counseling Athens to aid 
Byzantium and the Chersonesus against Philip, the city had been 
honored. 



DEMOSTHENES OX THE CROWN. 407 

58. The practice of assisting enemies in times of danger, is 
justilied by the example of his ancestors Avho aided Lacedae- 
mon against the Thebans. 

29. They had also aided the Euboeans against the Tljebans. 

30. Demosthenes mentions his law for equalizing taxation ac- 
cording to property, by which a heavy burden was removed 
from the poor. 

31. The advantages of this law. 

32. Demosthenes proposes now, to notice the proclamation 
and accounts. 

33. Whh regard to accounts he was not obliged to render 
any, for expending his own private fortime, in the service of the 
state— but it was for this very expenditure, that Ctesiphon pro- 
posed the crown. 

34. Precedents justify this proceeding — as in case of Xausi- 
cles and Charidemus. 

35. By referring to the decree of Ctesiphon, he proves that 
the reward was offered for his voluntary and gratuitous contri- 
butions. 

36. As to the proclamation in the theatre, it was justified by 
precedent, utility and law'. 

37. Demosthenes complains of the malice and irregularity of 
the prosecution. 

38. He warns Aeschines, lest in opposing a patriot, he be 
found not only an enemy to him bnt to the state. 

39. He inveiglis against the ignorance and bombast of Aes- 
chines. 

40. He alludes to the private character of Aeschines, and to 
the meanness of his family. 

41. Aeschines raised from sucli degradation by the state, had 
been ungrateful and betrayed it. 

42. Aeschines had defended the traitor Antiphon, and had 
been in consequence degraded from office by the Areopagus. 

43. He had also held private comnnuiion with the spy, 
Anaxinus. 

44. The condition of a calumnious traitor is made more en- 
viable than that of a patriot. 

45. Aeschines had not only favored Philip before but after 
hostilities commenced, and by his silence showed either acqui- 
escence with Demosthenes, or favor to his enenfies. 

46. Demosthenes calls attention to the conduct of Aeschines 
with regard to the Amphisseans ; the danger was, that such 
meanness was almost too great to be ])clieved. 



408 DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 

47. Aeschines was the contriver of tlie Am])hissaeaii war, 
but had been opposed in it by Demosthenes, ahhough in vain. 

48. Phihp hoping to secure the Thebans and Thessalians, 
as alHes, designed to raise an Auiphictyonic war, and in order 
to remove all suspicion he employed an Athenian to propose 
the plan. 

49. Aeschines was the man hired, who being appointed a 
Pylagoras of the Amphictyonic council from Athens, feigned the 
story of the sacred Cirrhean Region. 

50. It was so contrived that Philip should be at the head of 
the expedition. He niarches as if for Cirrha, but seizes Elatea, 
then Thebes took alarm and left him. 

51. This is proved from the decrees of the Amphictyonic 
council, and the letter of Philip. 

52. The real object of the contrivance was, division among 
the states, and the exposure of Athens to the fury of Philip. 

53. Consternation occasioned by Philip's capture of Elatea. 

54. Demosthenes gives the speech he made on the occasion, 
calming their fears and recommending pacific and conciliatory 
measures with Thebes. 

55. He contrasts his own energetic conduct with the utter 
inefficiency of Aeschines. 

56. He challenges Aeschines even now to point out any bet- 
ter course, that could have been pursued. 

57. If a counsellor had given the best possible advice, he 
was not to be blamed, if fortune had ordered a failure, but ra- 
ther should be commended, because without his interposition, 
the result midit have been worse. 

58. Aeschines could be as properly accused as Demosthenes, 
for he was silent while the city was in danger. 

59. The course pursued, is justified by the conduct of their 
ancestors. 

60. No other conduct would have been worthy of those an- 
cestors. 

61. Demosthenes resumes the subject of the embassy to 
Thebes. 

62. The ambassadors from Macedon praised Philip and op- 
posed Athens ; their accusations were repelled by the Atheni- 
an embassy. 

63. The Thebans received our aid with marks of aflfection- 
ate confidence. Success and victory attended our exertions, 
and if Aeschines participated in the joy, why should he now 
change his feelings ? If he sorrowed when Athens rejoiced, 
must he not be considered an enemy ? 



I 



DEMOSTHENES OX THE CROWX. 4Cl9 

64. A great check was put on Philip's course bvthe vicfilance 
of DemostheDes. as was seen from the altered tone of his letters. 
A crown was voted to Demosthenes, 

65. The decree in that case was precisely similar to the de- 
cree of Ctesiphon, and more liable to impeachment, because 
not then justified by precedent, 

66. Then, however, facts were so recent, that Aeschines could 
not resort to the misrepresentations which characterized the 
present procedure. 

67. Demosthenes enumerates :: - r.d' ■..r.^-^-s r'lhis own ad- 
ministration: 1 Alliance with T t- , Rt. oval of war 
from Attica. 3 Freedom from L . ne. 4 Coop- 
eration of the Byzantines against Pi 

6S. The trrdes on which Aos'-l ■ , t 1. were unwor- 

thy of such an impeachment, I: d a liberal and extend- 

ed review of his administration, iVuh ucginning to end 

69. Proceeding on tliis principle, he contrasts Philip's affairs 
with their own. as at the commencement of the administration, 
and shows what great benelits were soon conferred upon Athens. 

70. Instead of complaining as Aeschines had done of the 
gre^t inequality with which ex|ienses were distributed. Atbeas^ 
had rejoiced in the power to do so much. 

71. What an uproar would have been raised, if by means of 
Demosthenes, the alliance with T - -n discouraged. 

72. To speak now of the defeat — ir ^^a5 d-ji w be laid to De- 
mosthenes, who as an ambassador did all h^ could to prevent it* 

73w The field was not his appi vince : as a minis- 

ter he had met and conquered Pnuip. 

74. After the defeat, when if ever, he w> ve been ex- 
posed to popular fury*, e^ iiiideuce was bestowed, 
and the machinations of enemies Ueteaied by an acquittal from 
even." charge. 

75. Ctesiphon had then but expressed the judicial decision 
often made in his favor. Nor was his frequent impeachment 
any evidence against him, if he had always been acquitted, es- 
pecially as Aeschines had never prosecuted him. 

76. Demosthenes replies to the accusation of Aeschines, that 
bis fortune had been the cause of ruin to the city. 

77. He proceeds to compare his own fortunes ^vith those of 
his rival, precluding all ill-natured triumphs over poverty. 

78. He details his o^vn aniuent and honorable circiunstances. 

79. The poverty, and menial and ignoble career of Aeschines* 

80. Comparison of the two. 

35 



410 DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 

81. Demosthenes forbears to speak particularly of bis own 
private conduct, because it is too well known, and it is not a 
proper subject of remark at such a time. 

82. Misfortune was not to be attributed to Demosthenes, but 
to the fate of Greece, especially as Aeschines and his fellow-ac- 
cusers had coincided in the measures proposed by him. 

83. Involuntary injury is never imputed as a crime — much 
less, disappointment in those measures which are themselves 
most eligible. 

84. With regard to oratorical talents, his own had been em- 
ployed for the state — those of Aeschines, in private quarrels. 

85. This appeared from the fact, that Aeschines had never 
opposed the public conduct of Demosthenes, till he was 
crowned. 

86. Aeschines had favored the enemies of his country, while 
the true orator has the same interest with the people. 

87. Aeschines had been guihy of insincerity and falsehood, 
in denying his connection with Philip. 

88. Aeschines was not chosen eulogist of the slain, because 
a friend of those who slew them, but Demosthenes as a sin- 
cere mourner and bereaved friend was selected to discharge 
the office. 

89. The epigram shows that the misfortunes of that event 
were referred to fate, rather than its advisers. 

90. Great injustice is done to Athens, in attributing the de- 
fence of Greece merely to the advice of Demosthenes. 

91. Aeschines belonged to the class of traitors and subver- 
ters of liberty, who were to be found in every state. 

92. The pure influence and conduct of Demosthenes, in the 
midst of all this corruption. 

93. Not in adorning the city only, but in fortifying the state, 
had he been successful. 

94. The part of a good citizen, he had everywhere dis- 
charged. 

95. Certainly he is not to blame for calamity, when single- 
handed he had resisted it, and would have overcome it, but 
for want of sufficient cooperation. 

96. Contrast between the true and false citizen. 

97. Base course of Aeschines. 

98. Comparison with the past, unjust. 

99. Comparison njore proper with the living, although if 
with the dead, more disadvantageous to Aeschines than De- 
mosthenes. 



DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 411 

100. Demosthenes had maintained a firm affection for the 
state, and that in the most trying circinnstances. 

101. In conclusion — Demosthenes solemnly and fervently 
prays that the enemies of the state, may be either reformed, or 
may become the sole victims of vengeance. 

View of the Argument, 

Introduction, 1 — 4. — Plan, 5. — Strictures on the process, 6. 

I. Examination of the charge respecting the peace. — Demos- 
thenes, not its author, 7, 8. — Designs of Philip rendered ne- 
cessary the haste for ^vhich Demosthenes is blamed, 9. — Treach- 
ery of Aeschines was the real cause of disaster from the peace, 
10—16. 

II. Impeachment, 17. — Plan of reply, 18. 

1. Defence of his own administration, 19 — 31. 

(1) Importance of opposing Philip — (a) from the state of 
Greece ; (b) from the glorv of Athens ; (c) from the energy of 
Philip, 19—22. 

(2) Philip commenced hostilities, 23. 

(3) By his efficient opposition to Philip, and his refusal to be 
bribed, he had gained a crown, 24 — 26. 

(4) Through his influence, the state had been honored, 27. 

(5) The aid furnished to enemies in distress, is justified by 
j)recedent, 28, 29. 

(6) The law of taxation according to property, 30, 31. 

2. Proclamation and Accounts, 32. 

(1) As to accounts — no account need be rendered for gra- 
tuitous favor, and for that, he was crowned, 33 — 35. 

(2) The heralding in the theatre, was customary, proper and 
legal, 36. 

3. Prosecution maliciously conducted, and shows enmity to 
the state, 37, 38. 

III. Direct attack on Aeschines and proof of his inferiority 
to Demosthenes, 39. 

1. The family and character of Aeschines, 40, 41. 

2. Conspiracy with traitors and spies, 42, 43. 

3. Favor towards Philip, 44, 45. 

4. His bribed agency in the Amphissaean war, and its re- 
sults, 46 — 52. 

5. His inefficiency in the capture of Elatea, compared with 
the vigilance of Demosthenes, who procured in those trying cir- 
cumstances, a treaty with Thebes, 53—55. 61—6:3. The glory 



412 DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 

and excellence of that proceeding, notwithstanding its failure, 
56—60, influence on Philip, 64. The crown it procured to 
Demosthenes, 64 — 66. 

6. The unfairness and sophistry in the attack of Aeschines, 
exposed by an enumeration of several advantages, in the ad- 
ministration of Demosthenes, and the ruinous consequences of 
a different course, 67 — 71. 

7. He was not justly chargeable for the defeat, and besides 
had already been acquitted, 72 — 75. 

8. Comparison of the fortunes of Aeschines and Demos- 
thenes, 76 — 80. 

9. Reply to several important points in the argument of Aes- 
chines, respecting his public career, 8] — 100. 

(1) The failure of his expedition was not a matter of blame, 
because (a) the common misfortune of Greece ; (b) his plans 
were as wise as they could have been, 82, 83. 

(2) The warning against the seduction of his eloquence might 
most justly be retorted on Aeschines, 84—87. 

(3) His innocence in tlie destruction of those at Chaeronea 
is attested (a) by the fact that he was preferred to Aeschines, 
as funeral orator ; (b) the language of the epigram, 88, 89. 

(4) Much that is charged on himself, should be attributed 
to the spirit of Athens, 90. 

(5) Contrast between the course of Aeschines and Demos- 
thenes, 91—97. 

(6) The injustice of comparing him w^th the ancients, 98, 99. 
Peroration, 100, 101. 

Remarks on the Oration of Demosthenes on the Croum, 

1. The arrangement adopted by Demosthenes is worthy of 
notice. His speech is not so logically or lucidly arranged, as 
that of Aeschines. He takes great care, to avoid the order, 
which had been marked out for him by his antagonist. Be- 
cause he was sensible that he was not qualified to meet him, 
on each individual point of the accusation. After his exordi- 
um, before entering upon a formal reply to the impeachment, 
he seizes on the accusation with regard to the treaty, and re- 
futes the charges against himself, and shows that all the odium 
properly attaches itself to his rival. He thus prepares the 
judges for a favorable hearing, by removing their principal 
cause of dislike to himself, creating a favorable impression with 
regard to his own career, and a prejudice against that of his 



\ 



DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 413 

antag(>nist. When he comes to a formal self-defence, he passes 
lightly and conteniptuously over the points of law, on which 
Aeschines had laid such stress, and rehes chiefly on the splen- 
did instances of success, which had crowned his own adminis- 
tration. When he couies, in the third place, to attack his op- 
ponent's character and career, he ingeniously mingles his abuse 
with his self-praise, and conciliates the judges by artful flatte- 
ries of the people. The whole oration is admirably articulated 
for the effect it was designed to produce. 

2. The exordium has been much and justly admired. De- 
mosthenes brings, as has been said, Olympus itself to our view. 
Solemnly he appeals to the divinities for the justice of his 
cause, and entreats them for aid. And under the influence of 
the religious emotion, excited in the breasts of the judges, by 
such an appeal, lie be^s of them tlie one great privilege, which 
lie knew WaS to him xhe most important — the liberty to arrange 
his argument in the manner which suited himself, and not as 
his opponent had demanded. 

3. There is a tone of moral grandeur in some parts of the 
oration, which rises far above the rancor of abuse and the van- 
ity of self-interest, and exhibits the sterling qualities of the 
statesman and the patriot. Thus in sec. 100, (ravTv^v to/vit), 
"This quality therefore, (i)atriotism,) you will And remaining 
pure within me. You see me as I am ! Not when my person 
was demanded, not wlien they led me before the Amphicty- 
onic council, not when tltey threatened, not when they promi- 
sed, not when they sent these wretches like wild beasts against 
me, did I in any way abandon my affection toward you. For 
from the very flrst, I chose an u})right, an honest course of pub- 
lic life, viz. to serve the honor, the power, the glory of my 
country, these interests to advance, ivith these to abide ! rixiTag «l'- 
^(LV, fiSTu Toi'iwv iiruiP 

4. The manner in which Demosthenes treats his rival, merits 
remark. Nothing can exceed the contempt he seems to en- 
tertain for his character and his principles, and the bitterness 
with which he details his private histor)\ There is one [)as- 
sage in sec. 15, wliere he presses upon liim his indebte(hiess 
to the good, whom he despises, both for j)rosperity and life. 
He shows that had it not been for the opposition made to Philip 
by the patriotic, there would have been no need of his services, 
as a bribed adherent of the enemy, nor would his Ibrtune have 
been so great. And had it not been for the successful resis- 
tance of xVthens, he would have fallen into the disgrace and 

35^ 



414 DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 

danger which always attends the traitor, under the suspicions 
of a victorious employer. This is a bold specimen of the figure 
of anomaly noticed in the remarks on the first Phihppic. 

In sec. 16, is a passage of singular point and power. After 
complaining of his adversary for having disgorged the foulness 
of his iniquity upon him, yiaxadv.^^acyaq hoiXoKQaalav, he proceeds 
with great promptness, brevity and wit, to reply to his defence 
against the anticipated charge of friendship with Alexander. 
His language has a raciness and keenness in the grammatical 
liberties of the Greeks, which no English idioms can express. 
"I charge you with being an intimate {|fyt«j^) of Alexander ? 
Where did you gain, or how did you deserve the honor ? Nei- 
ther friend of Philip, nor intimate of Alexander, should I be 
such a fool as to call you, unless indeed, we are to call the 
reapers or those who perform any other service for wages, the 
friends and intimates of those who pay them. But not so ! not 
so ! Far from it ! The hireling of Philip then, and now of 
Alexander, I call you; and so do all these. If you doubt it, 
ask them, or rather, I will do it for you. How say you, Athe- 
nians, do you think Aeschines the hireling, or the intimate of 
Alexander ? (The people shout, hireling.) You hear what they 
say." There is an interesting anecdote told by Ulpian, and 
pretty generally credited by the critics, with reference to this 
passage. Demosthenes in order to secure the desired an- 
swer of the assembly, mispronounced the word fiiad^bnog, 
placing the accent on the penult, instead of the ultimate. 
The Athenians with their characteristic regard for the niceties 
of pronunciation, are said to have filled the hall with shouts of 
fiia&ioiog in correction of the orator. Many, however, think 
such an artifice not only unworthy of the manliness of the ora- 
tor, but entirely unnecessaiy, as the strong party of Demos- 
thenes' friends would have answered the call without the aid 
of such a trick, if indeed the whole assembly, inflamed to re- 
sentment by his pictures, and excited by this last sally, did not 
rise to express their sympathy.* 

Sec. 2.5, Demosthenes retorts with great keenness and sever- 
ity the charge, utg (tlmtioj /usp Xot^wv^ /5ow S" otvaXayaag, that when 
he had got his bribe he kept still, as though that was his only 
object, and his treacherous exertions recommenced only when 
he was in need of another. " Not so you," replies Demosthenes, 
"but you are clamorous while you have your bribe, (l/wv is 



Vide Leiand and Negris, in loc. 



DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 415 

more permanent than }.a.jm', and denotes that he was always 
receiving brihes,) and you will never desist, unless these by dis- 
gi-acing you shall stop you to-day." 

Observe also his criticism on the sho^^y and declamatoiy 
peroration of Aeschines, sec. 39, and particularly the striking 
antithesis in the comparison between himself and his rival, sec. 
80. "You taught school — I was a pupil. You performed the 
rites of initiation — I was one of the initiated. You performed 
in the dance — I paid you. You were a clerk — I was an orator. 
You were a third-rate actor — I was one of the audience. You 
were damned — I hissed you," etc. 

5. Demosthenes' power of graphic description is very great. 
An impressive instance occurs in sec. 53, where the orator de- 
picts the consternation occasioned at Athens by the first news 
of Philip's capture of Elatea. " It was evening, and one came 
to the magistrates, to aimounce that Elatea was taken. Iii a 
moment, some half through supper, {fisia^ii deiTivoivisg,) rising 
up quickly, di*ove the traders from their stations, and set fire to 
their sheds: others sent after the generals, and called out for 
the trumpeter ; and tlie city was full of tumult." The particu- 
larity of the description, and the singling out of small though 
striking circumstances, mark the hand of a master.* 

Very different in its character is the humorous and sarcastic, 
but equally graphic description in sec. 79: "But you, dignified 
and superciUous man, come, look at the fortunes of your life. 
Under these auspices, when a boy you were nurtiu*ed in penuiy, 
a drudge to your father in his school, preparing his ink, scrub- 
bing his benches, and sweeping his school-room, in the office 
of a slave rather than of a free boy. And when you became a 
man, you read to your mother the forms of initiation, and assist- 
ed her in the other duties of her art, employed with fawn-skins 
and kettles by night, purifying the novitiates, besmearing them 
with clay and bran, and after the purification, dictating to them 
the formula — / have escaped the had, I have found the better — boast- 
ing that no one could howl like you, (and so I think, for we 
cannot suppose that one could speak thus magniloquently, if 
he were not a magnificent howler,) and by day, leading the 
beautiful Bacchanals with their crowns of fennel and j)oplar, 
grasping the snakes and waving them over your head, and cry- 
ing Evoe Saboe, and dancing Hyes Attes! Attes Ifyes! saluted 
by the old women with the titles, Leader ! Conductor I Ivybcar- 

* See note, in loc. 



416 DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 

er ! Vanbearer ! and titles such as these ! receiving for your 
wages, crumbs, biscuit, and new-baked crust !" 

6. There are some passages of a lofty, commanding and im- 
passioned eloquence in this oration. Take as an instance the 
celebrated oath, oh ^a Tovg iv MixQa&wvi, sec. GO. Longinus 
comments on this passage as follows: " Demosthenes speaking 
in defence of his administration, introduces an AnodH^ig. What 
now was the most natural mode of expressing his idea ? * You 
have not erred, who engaged in the contest for Grecian liberty; 
and of this you have familiar examples, for the heroes of Mara- 
thon, of Salamis, of Platea did not err.' But when, as if sud- 
denly inspired by a divinity, he rolls out this oath by the he- 
roes of Greece — 'It cannot be that you have erred — no! by 
those who fought at Marathon,' he seems, by the single form of 
adjuration, which I call here apostrophe, at once to deify his 
ancestors, as if it were right to swear by those who died so glo- 
riously, as by gods, and to change the nature of his argument 
into the majesty and pathos of an oath which forced conviction 
by its singular beauty, and also to produce an influence so 
soothing upon the hearts of his hearers, that in the elation of 
these encomiums, they are led to esteem the battle with Philip, 
no less than the victories at Marathon and Salamis; and so by 
the force of the figure, he carries away his audience with him."* 
The whole impression of the passage is truly grand. Instead 
of using unnecessary amplification, he uses the greatest con- 
ciseness consistent with ybrce. 

The passage with which the oration closes is one of deep 
solemnity and fervor. After having exposed the conduct and 
motives of the enemies of the state, he proceeds : 

" O do not, ye gods, do not one of you assent to their wishes. 
But first of all, even to them, impart a better purpose and spirit. 
Or if they are so incurable, them by themselves — (toiiovc }asv 
ai'iovg nvtd- kavTovg) — pursue with ruin and destruction on sea 
and land, but to us who remain, secure a speedy relief from 
impending terrors, and a sure deliverance." 

Comparison between Aeschints and Demosthenes » 

The distinguishing characteristics of the two orators are easily 
discerned in the midst of the excellences which are common to 
both. They each warmly enlist our sympathies, both in the 
justice of the cause and the character of the speaker. Each 

* Longinus de Sub. § XVI. 



DEMOSTHENES ON THE CROWN. 417 

has passages which elevate, excite or awe, and through both 
speeches, there is a sustained power, an earnestness, a command 
of the subject, which awakens our admiration, and constantly 
reminds us that we are witnessing a mighty conflict. There 
is one principle of contrast, however, which follows us every- 
where, and to which may be referred almost every individual 
difl^erence between the two. Demosthenes carries throughout 
his performance an impression of grmideur and dignity, mental 
and moral, which his antagonist does not possess, Aeschines 
is the more subtile of the two, and while we are reading his 
discriminating exposi of the laws on which his opponent must 
be condemned, we admire his sagacity, his foresight, and his 
acumen ; but when Demosthenes by a hasty and easy blow, 
seems at once to demolish the carefully raised structure, and to 
pass over the trifles as too insignificant for his attention, his 
rival almost degenerates in our estimation into a quibbler. 
Demosthenes moreover sustains the elevated character of a 
statesman, far better than Aeschines. There is a moral sub- 
limity in some of his political sentiments, and a spirit of patriot- 
ism breathing through his speech, which awakens the convic- 
tion that he was a sincere man. This we never feel so strong- 
ly in the case of Aeschines. The fact so frequently and severely 
forced upon him, that he had been an actor, meets us on almost 
every page. After the reply of Demosthenes has been perused, 
we feel that Aeschines is an actor still — and our respect for the 
politics and the motives of the speaker, sinks in our contempt 
for his occupation. Urged on by a personal hatred, as he is, 
we feel that he is acting a part against Demosthenes, plying all 
his machinery, for purposes of stage-eflfect. In some of his 
principal passages, there is what may be called a degree of 
dramatic execution, as for instance, in the passage on the orphans 
of the heroes of Chaeronea, (sec. 49,) ^or more especially, the 
grand and solemn array of the past, which he introduces upon 
the stage, at the close of his speech. These passages are ad- 
mirable in themselves — they exhibit a power of imagination, 
which was not possessed by Demosthenes, whose excitement 
and elevation were ratlier momentary, than capable of sustain- 
ing the impression in detailed power. Yet the conciseness 
with which he expresses his emotions however intense, the 
sudden and rai)id disclosure he makes of the images that rush 
upon his mind, give a force to his style, whicli would be wasted 
in the detail, and they startle the feeling of his audience, into 
emotions, such as no dramatic exhibition introduced and sus- 



418 MR. homer's lectures. 

tained with the measured march of the buskin, could ever ex- 
cite. In proof of this, contrast the last of the passages alluded 
to in Aeschines — the summoning of the dead — with the cele- 
brated oath of Demosthenes. Aeschines calls up hero after he- 
ro of the past — and recites their virtues and their admonitions. 
We hear the tombs groaning with the sombre voice their accor- 
dance. Demosthenes has a vision of the past, as vivid for the 
moment, but instead of prolonging its duration, and drawing 
out its figures into minute detail, he pours the concentrated 
intensity of his emotions into a single paragraph, and his words 
burn with the ardor of a new-born thought and feeling. The 
same general difference ^vill appear, if we compare the declam- 
atory peroration of Aeschines, with the solemn yet fervid dig- 
nity with which Demosthenes concludes. Both no doubt felt 
deeply. Yet the one expresses his feeling in a strange and al- 
most grandiloquent flight, in which he calls to his aid with af- 
fected originality the influences of heaven and earth as if they 
were divine. The other, in a simple yet earnest prayer to the 
gods, pom's out the desires of his soul for his enemies and his 
country. 



VI. 

PLAN OF LECTURES ON HOMER AND DEMOSTHENES. 

As stated in the Memoir, Mr. Homer formed the plan and collected 
the materials for three courses of Lectures on the Iliad, the Odyssey, 
and the Writings of Demosthenes. The following are the subjects of 
his intended Lectures, and the Books of Reference which he selected 
afler careful examination. 

I. 

Course of Lectures on the Iliad. 

I. The German Theory of Homer.— II. The Life of Homer.— III. 
The Plot and Analysis of the Story.— IV. The Mythology of the Po- 
em. — V. Similes. — VL Descriptions. — VH. Characters: (Warriors, 
Old Men, Females). — VHI. Language : (Dialects, Metre, Harmony 
in sound and sentiment). — TX. Remarkable Passages: (Parting of 
Hector \ -ith Adromache, Achilles' Shield, Battle with Rivers, Games, 
Priam's Supplication). — X. Geography, Truth to nature, Tenderness, 
Epithets, Manners, Repetition, Military Discipline. 



MR. homer's lectures. 419 

II. 

Course of Lectures on the Odyssey. 

I. Comparison between the Od^'ssey and Iliad, and identity of au- 
thorship. — II. Plot and analysis of the story. — III. Mythology. (Ely- 
sium, Olympus, Xecyomanteia, etc). — iV. Manners. — V. Descrip- 
tions — VI. Characters. — VII. Remarkable Passages. (Proteus, Gar- 
den of Alcinous, Cyclops, Circe, Scylla and Charybdis.) — VIII. 
Similes, Language, Tenderness, Simplicity, Geography. 

Four or five Lectures on the Lesser Poems. 

Books of Reference. 

Wood's Essay on the Original Genius of Homer. — Wolff's Prole- 
gomena. — Knight's Prolegomena. (See Classical Journal, Vols. VII, 
VIII.) — Granville Penn's Primary Argument of the Iliad. — Review 
of Granville Penn, London Quarterly, XXVII. — Rejoinder. — Classi- 
cal Journal, XXVI. — Popes several Essays on Homer. — Diony- 
sius Halicarnassus de compositione verborum. — Homeric Question, 
American Quarterly, II ; London Quarterly, XLIV ; Edinburgh Re- 
view, LXII : North American Review, XXXVII. — Bulwer's Athens, 
Book I. Chap. 8. — Book II. Chap. 2. — Schubart's Ideen ueber Homer 
und sein Zeitalter ; (advocating very ably the position that Homer 
was a Trojan.) — Heeren's Politics of Ancient Greece. — DalzePs Lec- 
tures on Greek Literature. — Review of Sotheby's Translation, Edin- 
burgh Review, LI. — ReviewofHeyne's Homer, Edinburgh Review, 11. 
— Comparison between Hesiod and Homer, London Quarterly, XLVII. 
— Thirlwalls History of Greece, Vol. I. — Blackwall's Life of Homer. 
(Mythology, Travels, Geograph}'.) — Clarke's Travels. — Madame Da- 
cier on Homer. — Translation of the Homeric Hymns, Blackwood's 
Magazine, Vols. 30, 31, 3'2. — Mitford's History of Greece, Vol. I. — 
Histoire d'Homere par M. Delisle de Sales. — Franceron Essai sur le 
question si Homcre a connu I'usage de I'ecriture. — Constant de la 
Religion, Tome 3, Livres 7, d. — Hug's Erfindung der Buchstaben- 
schrifl. — Kreuser's Vorfrage ueber Homeros, seine Zeit, und Gesilnge. 
Frankfort am Main, 1828. — Schoell's Geschichte der Griechischen 
Literatur. Band 1. — Nitzch de Historia Homeri Meletemata. — St. 
Croix' Refutation d'un paradoxe literaire. — Thiersch's Urgestalt der 
Odyssee. — Feith's Antiquitates Homericae. — Travels of Anacharsis. 
Le Chevalier's Beschreibung der Ebene von Troja. — Voyage de la 
Troade. (Translated into English by Dalzel.) — Herder's Schriften zur 
Griechisclien Literatur. (Translated, Blackwood, XLII.) — Ulysse — 
Homjre par Constantin Tholiades. — Review of Sotheby's Translation 
of Homer, Blackwood, Vols. 21), 30, 31.) — Rapin's Critical Works, 
Vol. I. — Dionysius Halicarnasseus — Ars Rhetorica, Chap. VHI, IX, 
XL — Kocs' Commentatio de Discrepantiis quibusdam in Odyssea 
occurrentibus. Hafniae, 18l'6. — Besseldl's Erkliirinde Einleitung zu 
Homer's Odyssee. Konigsburg, 181G. — G. Lange's Versuch die poe- 
tische Einheit der Odyssee zu bestimmen. Darmstadt, IH'-iG. — Topog- 
raphy of Troy, and its vicinity, by W. Gell, Escj. of Jesus Colleg(\ 
London, 1804. — The History of Jliumor Troy, by tlie author of Trav- 
els in Asia Minor and Greece. (Richard CliandhT, D. D.) London, 



420 MR. homer's lectures. 

1802. — Dissertation concerning the War of Troy, and the Expedition 
of the Grecians ; showing that no such expedition was ever underta- 
ken, and that no such city of Phrygia ever existed, by Jacob Bryant, 
1796. — Several Replies to Bryant by J. B. S. Morritt, Esq. — Remarks 
and Observations on the Plain of Troy, made during an excursion in 
June, 1799, by William Franklin, Captain in the service of the East 
India Company. London, 1800. — Thiersch ueber das Zeitalter und 
Vaterland des Homer. Halberstadt, 1824.— Dr. K. H. W. Volcker 
ueber Homerische Geographie und Weltkunde. Hanover, 1830. 



m. 

Course of Lectures on Demosthenes. 

I. The Constitution of Athens. — XL The Life of Demosthenes, on 
the basis of the usual biographies, with a complete account of his con- 
troversy with his guardians, and his letters from exile. — HL The 
Rise, History and Career of Philip. — IV. The Orations of Demos- 
thenes against Philip ; their history and analysis. — V. The Style of 
Demosthenes as developed in these speeches. — VI. The remaining 
Public Orations of Demosthenes. — VII. The Legal Oratory of De- 
mosthenes. (Leptines, Midias, etc.) — VIII. The Controversy de 
Coron^. — IX. Translation of Dionysius de vi Demosthenis. — X. De- 
mosthenes compared with Cicero and Modern Orators. 

Books of Reference. 

Mitford's History of Greece, Vols. VI, VII, passim. Vide chap. 38. 
Sec. 3. — Travels of Anacharsis. — Longinus de Sublimitate. — Diony- 
sius Halicarnasseus. — Rapin's Critical Works, Vol. I. — Fenelonon El- 
oquence. — Reinhard's Confessions, p. 38. — Cicero — Brutus, 9. — Ora- 
tor, 7, 8, 31. — Quinctilian, X. 1. 105, (comparison between Demos- 
thenes and Cicero). Demosthenes als Staatsmann und Redner — von 
Becker. — Hume's Essays, (Eloquence). — Edinburgh Review, Vols. 
XII, XXXIII, XXXVI.— Quarterly Review, Vol. XXIX— North 
American Review, Vol. XXII. — Biblical Repository for 1838, p. 34. — 
Heeren's Ancient Greece. — Brougham's Sketches of Public Charac- 
ters, Vol. II. — D. Jenisch's Aesthetisch-kritische Parallele der Demos- 
thenes und Cicero, Berlin, 1801. 



END. 



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Treatment Date; April 2006 

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Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
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